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“MR. PUNCH’S” 

PRIZE NOVELS 























“MR. 

PRIZE 


PUNCH’S” 

NOVELS 


NEW SERIES 



R: C. LEHMAN 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM “PUNCH” 


o AUG 16 1892 J 

NEW YORK —jftltX 

NATIONAL BOOK COMPANY 




3, 4, 5 & 6 MISSION PLACE 


TZ3 

.L 


Copyright, 1892, 

BY 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY 


\All rights reserved .] 


TO 


3f* C. $umanD 




























































































































* 








ME. PUNCH’S PEIZE NOVELS. 


NEW SERIES. 


IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT. 

This age has been called an Age of Progress, 
an Age of Reform, an Age of Intellect, an Age of 
Shams ; everything in fact except an Age of Prizes. 
And yet, it is perhaps as an Age of Prizes that it 
is destined to be chiefly remembered. The humble 
but frantic solver of Acrostics has had his turn, 
the correct expounder of the law of Hard Cases 
has by this time established a complete code of 
etiquette ; the doll-dresser, the epigram-maker, the 
teller of witty stories, the calculator who can dis- 
cover by an instinct the number of letters in a 
given page of print, all have displayed their in- 
genuity, and have been magnificently rewarded by 


10 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


prizes varying in value from the mere publication 
of their names, up to a policy of life insurance, or 
a completely furnished mansion in Peckham Rye. 
In fact, it has been calculated by competent ac- 
tuaries that taking a generation at about thirty- 
three years, and making every reasonable allowance 
for errors of postage, stoppage in transitu , fraud- 
ulent bankruptcies and unauthorized conversions, 
120 per cent, of all persons alive in Great Britain 
and Ireland in any given day of twenty-four hours, 
must have received a prize of some sort. 

Novelists, however, had not until last year 
received a prize of any sort, at least as novelists. 
The reproach has been removed. A prize of £ 1000 
was offered for the best novel by the editor of a 
newspaper. The most distinguished writers were, 
so it was declared, entered for the Competition, but 
only the name of the prize-winner was to be re- 
vealed, only the prize-winning novel was to be 
published. Such at least was the assurance given 
to all the eminent authors by the Editor in question. 
But Mr. Punch laughs at other people’s assurances, 


ME. PUNCH'S PEIZE NOVELS. 


11 


and by means of powers conferred upon him by 
himself for that purpose, he was able to obtain 
access to all the novels sent in, and to publish a 
selection of Prize Novels, together with the names 
of their authors, and a few notes of his own, wher- 
ever the text seemed to require them. 

In acting thus Mr. Punch felt, in the true spirit 
of the newest and the Reviewest of Reviews, that 
he was conferring a favor on the authors con- 
cerned by allowing them the publicity of his 
columns. In certain cases pruning and condensa- 
tion were necessary. The operation has been per- 
formed as kindly as circumstances permitted. It 
is hardly necessary to add that Mr. Punch will 
give his own prize in his oivn way , and at his own 
time , to the author he may deem the best. 




The Interview . 


See p. 19 



BOB SILLIMERE.* 

BY MRS. HUMPHRY JOHN WARD PREACHER, 
Author of “ Master Sister son.” 


CHAPTER I. 

It was evening — evening in Oxford. There are 
evenings in other places occasionally. Cambridge 
sometimes puts forward weak imitations. But, on 
the whole, there are no evenings which have so 
much of the true, inward, mystic spirit as Oxford 
evenings. A solemn hush broods over the gray 

* On the paper in which the MS. of this novel was wrapped, 
the following note was written in a bold feminine hand: — 
“ This is a highly religious story. George Eliot was unable to 
write properly about religion. The novel is certain to be well 
reviewed. It is calculated to adorn the study-table of a bishop. 
The £1,000 prize must be handed over at once to the Institute 


14 


MR. PUNCH'S PBIZE NOVELS . 


quadrangles, and this, too, in spite of the happy 
laughter of the undergraduates playing touch last 
on the grass-plots, and leaping, like a merry army 
of marsh-dwellers, each over the back of the other, 
on their way to the deeply impressive services of 
their respective college chapels. Inside, the organs 
were pealing majestically, in response to the deft 
fingers of many highly respectable musicians, and 
all the proud traditions, the legendary struggles, 
the well-loved examinations, the affectionate memo- 
ries of generations of proctorial officers, the inno- 
cent rustications, the warning appeals of authori- 
tative Deans — all these seemed gathered together 
into one last loud trumpet-call, as a tall, impression- 
able youth, carrying with him a spasm of feeling, a 
Celtic temperament, a moved, flashing look, and a 
surplice many sizes too large for him, dashed with 
a kind of quivering, breathless sigh into the chapel 
of St. Boniface’s just as the porter was about to close 
the door. This was Robert, or, as his friends 

which is to be founded to encourage new religions in the alleys 
of St. Pancras. — H. J. W. P.” 


BOB SILLIMEBE. 


15 


lovingly called him, Bob Sillimere. His mother 
had been an Irish lady, full of the best Irish 
humor ; after a short trial, she was however, 
found to be a superfluous character, and as she 
began to develop differences with Catherine, she 
caught an acute inflammation of the lungs, and 
died after a few days, in the eleventh chapter. 

Bob sat still awhile, his agitation soothed by the 
comforting sense of the oaken seat beneath him. 
At school he had been called by his school-fellows 
“ the Knitting-needle,” a remarkable example of 
the well-known fondness of boys for sharp, short 
nicknames ; but this did not trouble him now. He 
and his eagerness, his boundless curiosity, and his 
lovable mistakes, were now part and parcel of the 
new life of Oxford — new to him but old as the 
ages, that, with their rhythmic recurrent flow, like 

the pulse of [ Two pages of fancy writing are 

here omitted. Ed.] Brigham and Black were in 
chapel, too. They were Dons, older than Bob, but 
his intimate friends. They had but little belief, 
but Black often preached, and Brigham held un- 


16 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


decided views on life and matrimony, having been 
brought up in the cramped atmosphere of a middle- 
class parlor. At Oxford the two took pupils, and 
helped to shape Bob’s life. Once Brigham had 
pretended, as an act of pure benevolence, to be a 
Pro-Proctor, but as he had a sardonic scorn, and a 
face that could become a marble mask, the Vice- 
Chancellor called upon him to resign his position, 
and he never afterwards repeated the experiment. 


CHAPTER II. 

One evening Bob was wandering dreamily on 
the banks of the Upper River. He sat down, and 
thought deeply. Opposite to him was a wide green 
expanse dotted with white patches of geese. There 
and then, by the gliding river, with a mass of 
reeds and a few poplars to fill in the landscape, he 
determined to become a clergyman. How strange 
that he should never have thought of this before ; 
how sudden it was ; how wonderful ! But the die 
was cast ; alea jacta est , as he had read yesterday 


BOB SILLIMERE. 


17 


in an early edition of St. Augustine ; and, when 
Bob rose, there was a new brightness in his eye, 
and a fresh springiness in his steps. And at that 

moment the deep bell of St. Mary’s \Three 

pages omitted . Ed.] 


CHAPTER III. 

Am) thus Bob was ordained, and haying married 
Catherine, he accepted the family living of Wend- 
over, though not before he had taken occasion to 
point out to Black that family livings were corrupt 
and indefensible institutions. Still, the thing had 
to be done; and bitterly as Bob pined for the 
bracing air of the East End of London, he acknowl- 
edged, with one of his quick, bright flashes, that, 
unless he went to Wendover, he could never meet 
Squire Mure well, whose powerful arguments were 
to drive him from positions he had never qualified 
himself, except by an irrational enthusiasm, to de- 
fend. Of Catherine a word must be said. Cold, 

with the delicate but austere firmness of a West- 
2 


18 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


morland daisy, gifted with fatally sharp lines about 
the chin and mouth, and habitually wearing loose 
gray gowns, with bodices to match, she was ad- 
mirably calculated, with her narrow, meat-tea pro- 
clivities, to embitter the amiable Sillimere’s exist- 
ence, and to produce, in conjunction with him, 
that storm and stress, that perpetual clashing of 
two estimates without which no modern religious 
novel could be written, and which not even her 
pale virginal grace of look and form could subdue. 
That is a long sentence* but, ah ! how short is a 
merely mortal sentence, with its tyrannous full 
stop, against the immeasurable background of the 
December stars, by whose light Bob was now 
walking, with heightened color, along the vast 
avenue that led to Wendover Hall, the residence 
of the ogre Squire. 


CHAPTER IV. 

The Squire was at home. On the door-step 
Bob was greeted by Mrs. Farcey, the Squire’s 


BOB SILLIMERE. 


19 


sister. She looked at him in her bird-like way. 
At other times she was elf-like, and played tricks 
with a lace handkerchief. 

44 You know,” she whispered to Boh, u we’re 
all mad here. I’m mad, and he,” she continued, 
bobbing diminutively towards the Squire’s study- 
door, 44 he’s mad too — as mad as a hatter.” 

Before Bob had time to answer this strange re- 
mark, the study-door flew open, and Squire Mure- 
well stepped forth. He rapped out an oath or 
two, which Bob noticed with faint politeness, and 
ordered his visitor to enter. The Squire was 
rough — very rough ; but he had studied hard in 
Germany. 

“ So you’re the young fool,” he observed, “ who 
intends to tackle me. Ha, ha, that’s a good joke. 
I’ll have you round my little finger in two twos. 
Here,” he went on gruffly, 44 take this book of mine 
in your right hand. Throw your eyes up to the 
ceiling.” Robert, wishing to conciliate him, did as 
he desired. The eyes stuck there, and looked down 
with a quick lovable look on the two men below. 


20 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


“ Now,” said the Squire, “ you can’t see. Pro- 
nounce the word ‘ testimony ’ twice, slowly. Think 
of a number, multiply by four, subtract the Thirty- 



“ Bob .” 


nine Articles, add a Sunday School and a packet 
of buns. Result, you’re a freethinker.” And with 
that he bowed Bob out of the room. 


BOB SILL IMBUE. 


21 


CHAPTER V. 

A TERRIBLE storm was raging in the rector’s 
breast as he strode, regardless of the cold, along 
the verdant lanes of Wendover. “Fool that I 
was ! ” he muttered, pressing both hands con- 
vulsively to his sides. “ Why did I not pay 
more attention to arithmetic at school ? I could 
have crushed him, but I was ignorant. Was that 
result right?” He reflected a while mournfully, 
but he could bring it out in no other way. “ I 
must go through with it to the bitter end,” he 
concluded, “and Catherine must be told.” But 
the thought of Catherine knitting quietly at 
home, while she read Foxe’s Book of Marty rs, 
with a tender smile on her thin lips, unmanned 
him. He sobbed bitterly. The front-door of 

the Rectory was open. He walked in. The 

rest is soon told. He resigned the Rectory, 


22 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


and made a brand-new religion. Catherine 
frowned, but it was useless. Thereupon she 
gave him cold bacon for lunch during a whole 
fortnight, and the brave young soul which had 
endured so much withered under this blight. 
And thus, acknowledging the novelist’s artistic 
necessity, Robert died. 


[the end.] 


The wax spluttered and melted. 


Co 

jy 




CO 

CO 





























































































A BUCCANEER’S BLOOD-BATH. 


By L. S. DEEVENSON, 

AUTHOR OF 

“ Toldon Dryland ,” “ The White Heton ,” “ Wentnap ,” 

“Amiss with a Candletray ,” “An Outlandish 
Trip ,” “ The Old Persian Baronets ,” .Etc. 


CHAPTER I. 

I AM a man stricken in years, and well-nigh 
spent with labor, yet it behooves that, for the 

* For some weeks before this novel actually arrived, we re- 
ceived by every post an immense consignment of paragraphs, 
notices, and newspaper cuttings, all referring to it in glowing 
terms. “ This,” observed the Bi-weekly Boomer , “ is, perhaps, 
the most brilliant effort of the brilliant and versatile author’s 
genius. Humor and pathos are inextricably blended in it. 
He sweeps with confident finger over the whole gamut of human 
emotions, and moves us equally to terror and to pity. Of the 
style it is sufficient to say that it is Mr. Deevenson’s.” The 
MS. of the novel itself came in a wrapper bearing the Samoan 
post-mark. — E d. Punch. 


26 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


public good, I should take pen in hand, and 
set down the truth of those matters wherein I 
played a part. And, indeed, it may befall that, 
when the tale is put forth in print, the public 
may find it to their liking, and buy it with no 
sparing hand, so that, at the last, the payment 
shall be worthy of the laborer. 

I have never been gifted with what pedants 
miscall courage. The extreme rashness of the 
temper which drives fools to their destruction 
hath no place in my disposition. A shrinking 
meekness under provocation, and a commendable 
absence of body whenever blows fell thick, 
seemed always to me to be the better part. 
And for this I have boldly endured many taunts. 
Yet it so chanced that in my life I fell in with 
many to whom the cutting of throats was but 
a moment’s diversion. Nay, more, in most of 
their astounding ventures I shared with them ; 
I made one upon their reckless forays; I was 
forced, sorely against my will, to accompany 
them upon their stormy voyages, and to endure 


A BUCCANEER'S BLOOD-BATII. 


‘21 


with them their dangers ; and there does not 
live one man, since all of them are dead, and 
I alone survive, so well able as myself to narrate 
these matters faithfully within the compass of 
a single five-shilling volume. 


28 


MR.. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


CHAPTER II. 

On a December evening of the year IT — , ten 
men sat together in the parlor of “ The Haunted 
Man.” Without, upon the desolate moorland, a 
windless stricture of frost had bound the air as 
though in boards, but within, the tongues were 
loosened, and the talk flowed merrily, and the clink 
of steaming tumblers filled the room. Dr. Dead- 
eye sat with the rest at the long deal table, puff- 
ing mightily at the brown old church-warden, whom 
the heat and the comfort of his evening meal had so 
far conquered, that he resented the doctor’s treat- 
ment of him only by an occasional splutter. For 
myself, I sat where the warmth of the cheerful fire 
could reach* my chilled toes, close by the side of 
the good doctor. I was a mere lad, and even now, 
as I search in my memory for those long-forgotten 
scenes, I am prone to marvel at my own heedless- 


A BUCCANEWS BLOOD-BATH. 


29 


ness in thus affronting these lawless men. But, 
indeed, I knew them not to be lawless, or I doubt 
not hut that my prudence had counselled me to 
withdraw ere the events befell which I am now 
about to narrate. 

As I remember, the Doctor and Captain Jawkins 
were seated opposite to one another, and, as their 
wont was, they were in high debate upon a ques- 
tion of navigation, on which the Doctor held and 
expressed an emphatic opinion. 

“Never tell me,-” he said, with flaming aspect, 
“ that the common term, ‘ Port your helm,’ implies 
aught but what a man, not otherwise foolish, would 
gather from the word. Port means port, and star- 
board is starboard, and all the d — d sea-captains in 
the world cannot move me from that.” With that 
the Doctor heat his fist upon the table until the 
glasses rattled again and glared into the Captain’s 
weather-beaten face.* 

* Editor to Author : “ IIow did the glasses manage to glare ? 
It seems an odd proceeding for a glass. Answer paid.” 

Author to Editor : “ Don’t be a fool. I meant the Doctor— 
not the glasses.” 


so MR. P TJNCU ’ 8 PRIZE NO VELS. 

“ Hear the man,” said the Captain — “ hear him. 
A man would think he had spent his days and 
n'ghts upon the sea, instead of mixing pills and 
powders all his life in a snuffy village dispen- 
sary.” 

The quarrel seemed like to he fierce, when a 
sudden sound struck upon our ears, and stopped 
all tongues. I cannot call it a song. Rather, it 
was like the moon-struck wailing of some unhappy 
dog, low, and unearthly ; and yet not that, either, 
for there were words to it. This much we all 
heard distinctly — 

“ Fifteen two and a pair make four, 

Two for his heels, and that makes six.” 

We listened, awestruck, with blanched faces, 
scarce daring to look at one another. For myself, 
I am bold to confess that I crept under the shelter- 
ing table and hid my head in my hands. Again 
the mournful notes were moaned forth — 


“ Fifteen two and a pair make four, 
Two for his heels, and ” 


A BUCCANEERS BLOOD-BATH. 


31 


But ere it was ended, Captain Jawkins liad sprung 
forward, and rushed into the further corner of the 
parlor. 44 1 know that voice,” he cried aloud ; 
44 1 know it amid a thousand ! ” And even as he 
spoke, a strange light dispelled the shadows, and 
by its rays we could see the crouching form of Bill 
Bluenose, with the red seam across his face where 
the devil had long since done his work. 


CHAPTER III. 


I had forgot to say that, as he ran, the Captain 
had drawn his sword. In the confusion which 
followed on the discovery of Bluenose, I could not 
rightly tell how each thing fell out ; indeed, from 
where I lay, with the men crowding together in 
front of me, to see at all was no easy matter. But 
this I saw clearly. The Captain stood in the cor- 
ner, his blade raised to strike. Bluenose never 
stirred, but his breath came and went, and his 
eyelids blinked strangely, like the flutter of a sere 
leaf against the wall. There came a roar of voices, 
and, in the tumult, the Captain’s sword flashed 
quickly, and fell. Then, with a broken cry like a 
sheep’s bleat, the great seamed face fell separate 
from the body, and a fountain of blood rose into the 
air from the severed neck, and splashed heavily 
upon the sanded floor of the parlor. 


A BUCCANEER'S BLOOD-BATH. 


33 


“ Man, man l ” cried the Doctor, angrily, “ what 
have ye done ? Ye’ve kilt Bluenose, and with him 
goes our chance of the treasure. But, maybe, it’s 
not yet too late.” 

So saying, he plucked the head from the floor 
and clapped it again upon its shoulders. Then, 
drawing a long stick of sealing-wax from his 
pocket, he held it well before the Captain’s ruddy 
face. The wax spluttered and melted. The Doc- 
tor applied it to the cut with deft fingers, and with 
a strange condescension of manner in one so 
proud. My heart beat like a bird’s, both quick 
and little ; and on a sudden Bluenose raised his 
dripping hands, and in a quavering kind of voice 
piped out — 

“ Fifteen two and a pair make four.” 

But we had heard too much, and the next mo- 
ment we were speeding with terror at our backs 
across the desert moorland. 

8 


34 


MIL F UN (JR ’ >$ FlllZE NO FPPc. 


CHAPTER IY. 

You are to remember that when the events I 
have narrated befell I was but a lad, and had a 
lad’s horror of that which smacked of the super- 
natural. As we ran, I must have fallen in a 
swoon, for I remember nothing more until I found 
myself walking with trembling feet through the 
policies of the ancient mansion of Dearodear. By 
my side strode a young nobleman, whom I straight- 
way recognized as the Master. His gallant bear- 
ing and handsome face served but to conceal the 
black heart that beat within his breast. He gazed 
at me with a curious look in his eyes. 

“ Squaretoes, Squaretoes,” said he — it was thus 
he had named me, and by that I knew that we 
were in Scotland, and that my name was become 
Mackellar — “ I have a mind to end your prying 
and your lectures here where we stand.” 

“ End it,” said I, with a boldness which seemed 


A BUCCANEER' S BLOOD-BATH. 


35 


strange to me even as I spoke ; “ end it, and where 
will you be ? A penniless beggar and an outcast.” 

“ The old fool speaks truly,” he continued, 
kicking me twice violently in the back, but other- 
wise ignoring my presence ; “ and if I end him, 
who shall tell the story? Nay, Squaretoes, let 
us make a compact. I will play the villain, and 
brawl, and cheat, and murder; you shall take 
notes of my actions, and, after I have died dra- 
matically in a North American forest, you shall 
set up a stone to my memory, and publish the 
story. Why say you ? Your hand upon it.” 

Such was the fascination of the man that even 
then I could not withstand him. Moreover, the 
measure of his misdeeds was not yet full. My 
caution prevailed, and I gave him my hand. 

“ Done,” said he ; “ and a very good bargain 
for you, Squaretoes ! ” 

Let the public, then, judge between me and the 
Master, since of his house not one remains, and I 
alone may write the tale. 

(TO be continued.— Author.) [The End.— Editor of Punch.'] 






























































■ 
















































































































MIGNOFS MESS-EOOI.* 

By TOM RUM SUMMER, 

AUTHOR OP 

“ Mignorts Ma ,” “ Mignon’s Hub,” “ Footles’ Father ,” 
Tootle's Tootsie ,” “ C/sriy Tom” “ Four .Ric/i Richard ,” 
“A Baby in Barracks ,” “ Stuck,” “ Horp-Love,” “ JFent 
/or Pleeceman ,” Etc ., I££c., liftc. 

CHAPTER I. 

“ Three blind mice — 

See how, they run.” — 0£d &ongr. 

The Officers of the Purple Dragoons were 
gathered together in their ante-room. It was a 
way they had. They were all there. Grand 

* “This,” writes the eminent author, “is a real , true story 
of the life of soldiers and children. Soldiers are grand , noble 
fellows. They are so manly, and all smoke a great deal of 
tobacco. My drawl is the only genuine one. I could do a lot 
more of the same sort, but I charge extra for pathos. I’m a 
man. — T. R. S.” 


33 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


fellows, too, most of them — tall, broad-shouldered, 
and silky-haired, and as good as gold. That gets 
tiresome after a time, but everything can be set 
right with one downright rascally villain — a 
villain, mind you, that poor, weak women know 
nothing about. Gavor was that kind of man. 
Of course that was why he was to break his neck, 
and get smashed up generally But I am antici- 
pating, and a man should never anticipate. Emily, 
for instance, never did. Emily — Captain Emily, 
of the Purple Dragoons — was the biggest fool in 
the Service. Everybody told him so ; and Emily, 
who had a trustful, loving nature, always believed 
what he was told. 

“ I nev-ah twry,” he used to say — it was a diffi- 
cult word to pronounce, but Emily always stuck 
to it as only a soldier can, and got it out somehow — 
“ I nev-ah twry to wremember things the wwrong 
way wround.” 

A roar of laughter greeted this sally. They all 
knew he meant “ anticipate,” but they all loved their 
Emily far too well to set him right. 


MIGN ON' S MESS-BOOM. 


39 


“ ’ Pon my soul,” he continued, “ it’s quite twrue. 
You fellows may wroawr wiv laughtewr if you 
like, but it’s twrue, and you know it’s twrue.” 

There was another explosion of what Emily 
would have called “ mewrwriment,” at this, for it 
was well-known to be one of the gallant dragoon’s 
most humorous efforts. A somewhat protracted 
silence followed. Footles, however, took it in 
both hands, and broke it with no greater emotion 
than he would have shown if he had been called 
upon to charge a whole squadron of Leicestershire 
Bullfinches, or to command a Lord Mayor’s escort 
on the 9th of November. Dear old Footles ! He 
wasn’t clever, no Purple Dragoon could be, but he 
wasn’t the biggest fool in the Service, like Emily, 
and all the rest of them. Still he loved another’s. 

In fact, whenever a Purple Dragoon fell in love, 
the object of his affections immediately pretended 
to love some one else. Hard lines, but soldiers 
were born to suffer. It is so easy, so true, so usual 
to say, “ there’s another day to-morrow,” but that 
never helped even a Purple Dragoon to worry 


40 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


through to-day any the quicker. Poor, brave, 
noble, drawling, manly, pipe-sinoking fellows ! 
On this particular occasion Footles uttered only 
one word. It was short, and began with the fourth 
letter of the alphabet. But he may be pardoned, 
for some of the glowing embers from his magnifi- 
cent briar-wood pipe had dropped on to his regula- 
tion overalls. The result was painful — to Footles. 
All the others laughed as well as they could, with 
clays, meerschaums, briars, and asbestos pipes in 
their mouths. And through the thick cloud of 
scented smoke the mess-waiter came into the room, 
bearing in his hand a large registered letter, and 
coughing violently. 


MIGNONS MESS-ROOM. 


41 


CHAPTER II. 

“ The mouse ran up the clock .” — Nursery Rhyme. 

The waiter advanced slowly to Footles, and 
handed him the letter. F ootles took it meditatively, 
and turned it over in both hands. The post-marks 
were illegible, and the envelope much crumpled. 
“ Never mind,” thought Footles, to himself, “it 
will dry straight — it will dry straight.” He always 
thought this twice, because it was one of his 
favorite phrases. At last he decided to open it. 
As he broke the seal a little cry was heard, and 
suddenly, before even Emily had had time to say 
“ I nev-ah ! ” a charming and beautifully dressed 
girl, of about fifteen summers, sprang lightly from 
the packet on to the mess-room floor, and kissed 
her pretty little hand to the astonished Dragoons. 

“ You’re Footles,” she said, skipping up to the 
thunder-stricken owner of the name. “ I know 


42 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


you very well. I’m going to be your daughter, 
and you’re going to marry my mother. Oh, it’s all 
right,” she continued, as she observed Footles press 



“ You're Footles she said. 


his right hand convulsively to the precise spot on 
his gorgeous mess-waistcoat under which he im- 
agined his heart to be situated, “ it’s all right. Pa’s 


MIQNON ’ S MESS-IiOOM. 


43 


going to be comfortably killed, and put out of the 
way, and then you’ll marry darling Mamma. 
She’ll be a thousand times more beautiful at thirty- 
three than she was at twenty-two, and ever so 
much more lovely at fifty-five than at thirty-three. 
So it’s a good bargain, isn’t it, Em ? ” This 
to Emily, who appeared confused. She trotted up 
to him, and laid her soft, blooming cheek against 
his blooming hard one. 

44 Never mind, Em,” she lisped, “ everything is 
bound to come out right. I’ve settled it all ” — 
this with a triumphant look on her baby-face — “ with 
the author ; such a splendid writer, none of your 
twaddling woman-scribblers, but a real man, and 
a great friend of mine. I’m to marry you, Em. 
You don’t know it, because you once loved Naomi, 
who 4 mawrwried the Wrevewrend Solomon ’ ” — 
at this point most of the Purple Dragoons were 
rude enough to yawn openly. She paid no atten- 
tion to them — 44 and now you love Olive, but she 
loves Parkack, and he doesn’t love her, so she has 
got to marry Parkoss, whom she doesn’t love. 


44 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


Their initials are the same, and everybody knows 
their caligraphy is exactly alike,” she went on 
wearily, “ so that’s how the mistake arose. It’s a 
bit far-fetched, but,” and her arch smile as she said 
this would have melted a harder heart than Cap- 
tain Emily’s, “ we mustn’t be too particular in a 
soldier’s tale, you know.” 

As she concluded her remarks. the door opened, 
and Colonel Purser entered the room. 


MIG2T02TS MESS-BOOM. 


45 


CHAPTER III. 

“Pat a cake, pat a cake, baker’s man .” — Old Ballad. 

Colonel Purser was a stout, plethoric man. 
He was five feet seven inches high, forty five inches 
round the chest, fifty inches round the waist, and 
every inch of him was a soldier. He was, there- 
fore, a host in himself. He gasped, and turned 
red, but, like a real soldier, at once grasped the 
situation. The Colonel was powerful, and the 
situation, in spite of all my pains, was not a strong 
one. The struggle was short. 

“ Pardon me,” said the Colonel, when he had 
recovered his wind, “ is your name Mignon ? ” 

“ Yes,” she replied, as the tears brimmed over in 
her lovely eyes, “ it is. I am a simple soldier’s 
child, but, oh, I can run so beautifully — through 
ever so many volumes, and lots of editions. In 


46 MIi> P UNCH ’ 8 PRIZE NO VEL S. 

fact,” slie added confidentially, “ I don’t see why I 
should stop at all, do you ? Emily must marry me. 
He can’t marry Olive, because Dame Nature put in 
her eyes with a dirty finger. Ugh ! I’ve got blue 
eyes.” 

“ But,” retorted the Colonel quickly, “ shall you 
never quarrel ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” anwered Mignon, “ there will come a 
rift in the hitherto perfect lute of our friendship 
(the rift’s name will be Darkey), but we shall man- 
age to bridge it over — at least Tom Bum Summer 
says so.” Here Emily broke in. He could stand 
it no longer. “ Dash it, you know, this is wewry 
extwraowrdinawry, wewry extwraowrdinawry in- 
deed,” he observed. “ You’wre a most wremawrka- 
ble young woman, you know.” 

A shout of laughter followed this remark, and in 
the fog of tobacco-smoke Colonel Purser could be 
dimly seen draining a magnum of champagne. 


MIG N ON'S MNSS-ROOM. 


47 


CHAPTER IV. 


“ Hey diddle, diddle .” — Songs and Romances. 

Everything fell out exactly as Mignon pro- 
phesied. But if you think that you’ve come to the 
end of Mignon, I can only say you’re very much 
astray, or as Emily, with his smooth silky voice, 
and his smoother silkier manners, would have said, 
“ You’wre we wry much astwray.” See my next 
dozen stories. 


[the end.] ( Pro tem.') 



“ The Three Musketeers 


BUBBA MUBBA BOKO.* 

By KIPPIERD HERRING, 

AUTHOR OF 

1 Soldiers' Tea," “ Over the Darodees ," “ Handsome Heads 
on the Valets " More Black than White" 

“ Experimental Dittos," Etc., Etc. 


P OLLA dan anta cat anta. What will you 
have, Sahib ? My heart is made fat, and my eyes 
run with the water of joy. Kni vestog rind , Sets 
sorstog rind , the Sahib is as a brother to the needy, 
and the afflicted at the sound of his voice become 

* The MS. of this story arrived from India by pneumatic 
despatch, a few puffs having been apparently sufficient. In a 
letter which was inclosed with it the Author modestly apolo- 
gizes for its innumerable merits. “But,” he adds, “I have 
several hundred of the same sort in stock, and can supply them 
at a moment’s notice. Kindly send £1,000 in Bank of England 
notes, by registered letter, to K. Herring. No farther address 
will he required.” 


4 


50 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


as a warming-pan in a for postah. Ahoo ! Ahoo ! 
I have lied unto the Sahib. Mi ais an dlims , I am 
a servant of sin. Burra Murra Boko ! Burra 
Murra Boko ! 

There came a sound in the night as of an 
elephant-herd trumpeting in anger, and my liver 
was dissolved, and the heart within me became as 
a Patopli Buttak under the noon-day sun. I made 
haste, for there was fear in the air, Sahib, and the 
Pleez MaJin that walketh by night was upon me. 
But, oh, Sahib, the cunning of the serpent was 
with me, and as he passed I tripped him up, and 
the raging river received him. Twice he rose, and 
the gleam of his eyes spake in vain for help. And 
at last there came a bubble where the man had 
been, and he was seen no more. Burra Murra 
Boko ! Burra Murra Boko ! 

That night I spake unto her as she stood in the 
moonlight. “ Oh, sister of an oil-jar, and daughter 
of pig-troughs, what is it thou hast done ? ” And 
she, laughing, spake naught in reply, but gave me 
the Tcheke Slahp of her tribe, and her fingers fell 


BURRA MURRA BOKO. 


51 


upon my face, and my teeth rattled within my 
mouth. But I, for my blood was made hot within 
me, sped swiftly from her, making no halt, and 
the noise of fifty thousand devils was in my ears, 
and the rage of the SmdJc dims burnt fierce within 
the breast of me, and my tongue was as a fresh fig 
that grows upon a southern wall. Auggrh ! pass 
me the peg, for my mouth is dry. Burra Murra 
Boko ! Burra Murra Boko ! 

Then came the Yunkum Sahib, and the Bunkum 
Sahib, and they spake awhile together. But T, 
like unto a Brerra-bit, lay low, and my breath came 
softly, and they knew not that I watched them 
as they spake. And they joked much together, 
and told each to the other how that the wives of their 
friends were to them as mice in the sight of the 
crouching Tabbikat , and that the honor of a man 
was as sand, that is blown afar by the storm-wind 
of the desert, which maketli blind the faithful, and 
stoppeth their mouths. Such are all of them, Sahib, 
since I that speak unto you know them for what 
they are, and thus I set forth the tale that all men 


52 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


may read, and understand. Burra Murra Boko! 
Burra Murra Boko ! 

“’Twas the most ondacint bedivilmint ever I set 
eyes on, Sorr. There was I blandandhering wid- 
out- — ” 

“ Pardon me,” I said, “ this is rather puzzling. 
A moment back you were a Mahajun of Pali, in 
Marwur, or a Delhi Pathan, or a Wali Dad, or 
something of that sort, and now you seem to have 
turned into an Irishman. Can you tell me how it 
is done ? ” 

“ Whist, ye oncivilized, backslidering pagin ! ” 
said my friend, Private O’Rammis, for it was 
indeed he. “Hould on there till I’ve tould ye. 
Fwhat was I sayin’ ? Eyah, eyah, them was the 
bhoys for the dhrink. When the sun kem out wid 
a blink in his oi, an’ the belly-band av his new shoot 
tied round him, there was Porters and Athus lyin’ 
mixed up wid the brandy-kegs, and the houl of the 
rigimint tearin’ round like all the divils from hell 
bruk loose. 

“ Thin I knew there’d be thrubble, for ye must 


BURRA HURRA BOKO. 


53 


know, Sorr, there was a little orf’cer bhoy cryin’ as 
tho’ his little heart was breakin’, an’ the Colonel’s 
wife’s sister, wid her minowderin’ voice ” 

“ Look here, O’Rammis,” I said, “ I don’t like 
to stop you ; but isn’t it just a trifle rash — I mean,” 
I added hastily, for I saw him fingering his bay- 
onet, “is it quite as wise as it might be to use up 
all your materials at once ? Besides, I seem to 
have met that little orf’cer bhoy and the Colonel’s 
wife’s sister before. I merely mention it as a 
friend.” 

“ You let ’im go, Sir,” put in Porters, with his 
cockney accent. “ Lor, Sir, Terence knows 
bloomin’ well wot ’e’s torkin’ about, an’ wen Vs 
got a story to tell you know there ain’t one o’ 
us wot’ll get a bloomin’ word in ; or leastways, Hi 
carn’t.” 

“ Sitha,” added Jock Athus. “ I never gotten 
but one story told mysen, and he joomped down 
my throaat for that. Let un taalk, Sir, let un 
taalk.” 

“ Very well,” I said, producing one of the half- 


54 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


dozen bottles of champagne that I always carried 
in my coat-tail pockets whenever I went up to the 
Barracks to visit my friend O’Rammis, 44 very well. 
Fire away, Terence, and let us have your story.” 

44 I’m an ould fool,” continued O’Rammis in a 
convinced tone. 44 But ye know, Jock, how ’twas. 
I misremember fwhat I said to her, but she never 
stirred, and only luked at me wid her melancolious 
ois, and wid that my arm was round her waist, for 
bedad, it was pretty she was under the moon in 
the ould barrick square. 4 Hould on there,’ she 
says, 4 ye boiled thief of Deuteronomy. D’ye think 
I’ve kem here to be philandhering afther you. I’d 
make a better man than you out av empty kyart- 
ridges and putty.’ Wid that she turned on her 
heel, and was for marching away. But I was at 
her soide again before she’d got her left fut on the 
beat. 4 That’s quare,’ thinks I to myself ; 4 but, 
Terence, me bhoy, ’tis you knows the thricks av the 
women. Shoulder arrums,’ I thinks, and let fly wid 
the back sight.’ Wid that I just squeezed her 
hand wid the most dellikit av all squeezings, and, 


BURR A MURRA BOKO. 


55 


sez I, 4 Mary, me darlint,’ I sez, 4 ye’re not vexed 
wid Terence, I know ; ’ but you never can tell the 
way av a woman, for before the words was over 
the tongue av me, the bhoys kem raging an’ ram- 
shackling ” 

44 Really, 0 Rammis,” I ventured to observe, for 
I noticed that he and his two friends had pulled 
all the other five bottles out of my pocket, and 
had finished them, 44 I’m a little disappointed with 
you to-day. I came out here for a little quiet 
blood and thunder before going to bed, and you are 
mixing up your stories like the regimental laun- 
dress’s soapsuds. It’s not right of you. Now, 
honestly, is it? ” 

But the Three Musketeers had vanished. Per- 
haps they may re-appear, bound in blue-gray on 
the railway bookstalls, with many quotations from 
reviews. Perhaps not. And the worst of it is, that 
the Colonel will never understand them, and the 
gentlemen who write articles will never understand 
them. There is only one man who knows all about 
them, and even he is sometimes what my friend 


56 


ME. PUNCH'S PE1ZE NOVELS. 


O’Rammis calls “ a blandandhering, philandhering, 
misundherstandhering civilian man.” 

Which his name is Kippierd Herring. 

And that is perfectly true. 



“ You will , as usual , take the fat ?” 







































































!• 




* 



























4 

:* 







































t 

t 























































JO AM A OF THE CEOSS WAYS.* 


By GEORGE VERIMYTH, 

Author of “Richard's Several Editions ,” “ The Aphorist 
“ Shampoo's Shaving-Pot” Etc.> Etc . 


CHAPTER I. 

In the earlier portion of the lives of all of ns 
there is a time, heaven-given without doubt, for 
all things, as we know, draw their origin thence, if 
only in our blundering, ill-conditioned way we 
trace them hack far enough with the finger of fate 
pointing to us as in mockery of' all striving of ours 
on this rough bosom of our mother earth, a time 
there comes when the senses rebel, first faintly, 

* With this story came a long, explanatory letter. The story 
however, is itself so clear and easy to understand (as is all 
the work of this master), that the accompanying commentary 
is unnecessary. 


60 


MB. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


and then with ever-increasing vehemence, panting, 
beating, buffeting and breasting the torrent of 
necessity, against the parental decree that would 
drench our inmost being in the remedial powder 
of a Gregorian doctor, famous, I doubt not, in his 
day, and much bepraised by them that walked 
delicately in the light of pure reason and the health- 
ful flow of an untainted soul, but now cast out and 
abhorred of childhood soaring on uplifted wing 
through the vast blue of the modern pharmacopoeia. 
Yet to them is there not comfort too in the sym- 
bolic outpourings of a primaeval wisdom which, 
embodied for all time in imperishable verse, are 
chanted in the haunts of the very young like the 
soft lappings of the incoming tide on a beach where 
rounded pebble disputes with shining sand the 
mastery of the foreshore ? 

So, too, while the infant chariot with its slow 
motion of treble wheels advances obedient to the 
hand of the wimpled maid who from the rear 
directs its ambiguous progress, the dozing occupant 
may not always understand, but, hearing, cannot 


JOANNA OF THE CROSS WAYS. 


61 


fail to be moved to tears by the simple tale of 
Joanna crossed in all her depth and scope of free 
vigorous life by him that should have stood her 
friend. For the man had wedded her. Of that 
there can be no doubt, since the chronicles have 
handed down the date of it. Wedded her with the 
fatal “ yes ” that binds a trusting soul in the 
world’s chains. A man, too. A reckless, mutton- 
munching beer-swilling animal ! And yet a man. 
A dear, brave, human heart, as it should have been ; 
capable, it may be, of unselfishness and devotion ; 
but, alas ! how sadly twisted to the devil’s purposes 
on earth, an image of perpetual chatter, like the 
putty-faced street-pictures of morning soapsuds. 
His names stand in full in the verse. John, short- 
ened familiarly, but not without a hint of con- 
tempt, to Jack, stares at you in all the bravery of a 
Christian name. And Spratt follows with a breath 
of musty antiquity. Spratt that is indeed a Spratt, 
sunk in the oil of a slothful imagination and bear- 
ing no impress of the sirname that should raise its 
owner to cloudy peaks of despotic magnificence. 


62 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


But of the lady’s names no hint is given. We 
may conjecture Spratt to have been hers too, poor 
young soul that should have been dancing instead 
of fastened to a table in front of an eternal platter. 
And of all names to precede it the fittest surely is 
Joanna. For what is that but the glorification 
with many feminine thrills of the unromantic 
chawbacon John masticating at home in semi- 
privacy the husks of contentment, the lean scrap- 
ings of the divine dish which is offered once in 
every life to all. So Joanna she shall be and is, 
and as Joanna shall her story be told. 


JOANNA OF THE CROSS WAYS. 


63 


CHAPTER II. 

Many are the tales concerning Joanna’s flashing 
wit. There appeared many years back, in a modest 
shape that excited small interest amongst the re- 
viewing herd, a booklet whereof the title furnished 
little if any indication to the contents. The Spin~ 
ster's Reticule , for so the name ran, came forth 
with no blare of journalistic trumpets challenging 
approval from the towers of critical sagacity. It 
appeared and lived. But between its cardboard 
covers the bruised heart of Joanna beats before the 
world. She shines most in these aphorisms. Her 
private talk, too, has its own brilliancy, spun, as it 
was here and there, out of a museful mind at the 
cooking of the dinner or of the family accounts. 
She said of love that “ it is the sputter of grease in 
a frying-pan ; where it falls the fire burns with a 
higher flame to consume it.” * Of man, that “ he 
* I guarantee all these remarks to be intensely humorous and 
brilliant. If you can’t see it, so much the worse for you. They 
are screamers . — G. Y. 


64 MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 

may navigate Mormon Bay, but he cannot sail to 
Khiva Point.” The meaning is too obvious it may 
be, but the thought is well imaged. 

She is delightful when she touches on life. 
“ Two,” she says, “ may sit at a feast, but the 
feast is not thereby doubled.” And, again, 
44 Passion may lift us to Himalaya heights, but 
the hams are smoked in a chimney.” And this 
of the soul, 44 He who fashions a waterproof 
prevents not the clouds from dripping moisture.” 
Of stockings she observes that, 44 The knitting- 
needles are long, but the turn of the heel is a 
teaser.” Here there is a fanciful irony of which 
matrons and maids may take note. 

Such, then, was our Joanna — Joanna Meresia 
Spratt, to give her that full name by which 
posterity is to know her — an ardent, bubbling, 
bacon-loving girl-nature, with hands reaching 
from earth to the stars, that blinked egregiously 
at the sight of her innocent beauty, and hid 
themselves in winding clouds for very love of her. 


JOANNA OF THE CROSS WAYS . 


65 


CHAPTER III. 

Sir John Spratt had fashions that were 
peculiarly his own. Vain it were to inquire 
how, from the long-perished Spratts that went 
before him, he drew that form of human mind 
which was his. Laws that are hidden from our 
prying eyes ordain that a man shall be the visible 
exemplar of vanished ages, offering here and 
there a hook of remembrance, on which a 
philosopher may hang a theory for the world’s 
admiring gaze. Far back in the misty past, of 
which the fabulists bear record, there have swum 
Spratts within this human ocean, and of these 
the ultimate and proudest was he with whose 
life-story we are concerned. It was his habit to 
carry with him on all journeys a bulky note- 
book, the store in which he laid by for occasions 

of use the thoughts that thronged upon him, 
5 


66 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


now feverishly, as with the exultant leap of a 
rough-coated canine companion, released from 
the thraldom of chain and kennel, and eager 
to seek the Serpentine haunts of w T ater-nymphs, 
and of sticks that fall with a splash, and are 
brought back time and again whilst the shaken 
spray bedews the onlookers ; now with the staid 
and solemn progression that is beloved of the 
equine drawers of four-wheeled chariots, pro- 
testing with many growls against a load of 
occupants. 

He had met Joanna. They had conversed. 
“An empty table, is it not?” said she. “No- 
where ! ” said he, and they proceeded. His 
“ Nowhere ! ” had a penetrating significance — the 
more significant for the sense that it left vague. 

And so the marriage was arranged, the word 
that was to make one of those who had hitherto 
been two had been spoken, and the celebrating 
gifts came pouring in upon the pair. 

Sir John walked home with triumph swelling 
high in his heart. Overhead the storm-clouds 


JOANNA OF THE CROSS WAYS. 


67 


gathered ominously. First with a patter, then 
with a drenching flood, the prisoned rain burst 
its bars, and dashed clamoring down to the 
free earth. He paused, umbrella-less, under a 
glimmering lamp-post. The hurrying steeds of 
a carriage, passing at great speed, dashed the 
« gathered slush of the street over his dark blue 
Melton overcoat. The imprecations of the coach- 
man and his jeers mingled strangely with the 
elemental roar. Sir John heeded them not. 
He stood moveless for a space, then slowly 
drawing forth his note-book, and sharpening his 
pencil, he wrote the following phrase: — “Laid 
Brother to Banjo , one, two, three, 5 to 4.” 


68 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


CHAPTER IV. 

A year had gone by, and with the spring 
that whispered softly in the blossoming hedge- 
rows, and the melancholy cry of the female fowl 
calling to her downy brood, Joanna had learnt 
new lessons of a beneficent life, and had crystal- 
lized them in aphorisms, shaken like dew from 
the morning leaf of her teeming fancy. 

They sat at table together. Binns, the butler, 
who himself dabbled in aphorism, and had sucked 
wisdom from the privy perusal of Sir John’s 
note-book, had laid before them a dish on which 
reposed a small but well-boiled leg of one that 
had trod the Southdowns but a week before in 
all the pride of lusty life. There was a silence 
for a moment. , 

“You will, as usual, take the fat?” queried 
Sir John. 


JOANNA OF THE CROSS WA YS. 


69 


“ Lean for me to-day,” retorted Joanna, with 
one of her bright flashes. 

44 Nay, nay,” said her husband, 44 that were 
against tradition, which assigns to you the fat.” 

Joanna pouted. Her mind rebelled against dic- 
tation. Besides, were not her aphorisms superior 
to those of her husband? The cold face of Sir 
John grew eloquent in protest. She paused, and 
then with one wave of her stately arm swept 
mutton, platter, knife, fork, and caper sauce into 
the lap of Sir John, whence the astonished Binns, 
gasping in pain, with much labor, rescued them. 
Joanna had disappeared in a flame of mocking 
laughter, and was heard above calling on her 
maid for salts. But Sir John ere yet the sauce 
had been fairly scraped from him, unclasped 
his note-book, and with trembling fingers wrote 
therein, 44 Poole’s master-pieces are ever at the 
mercy of an angry woman.” 


70 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NO VEL S. 


CHAPTER V. 

But the world is hard, and there was little mercy 
shown for Joanna’s freak. Her husband had slain 
her. That was all. She with her flashes, her gay- 
ety, her laughter, was consigned to dust. But in 
Sir John’s note-book it was written that, “The 
hob-nailed boot is but a bungling weapon. The 
drawing-room poker is better.” 


We were all on the pig-sty. 


































THRUMS ON THE AULD STRING.* 

By J. MUIR KIRRIE, 

AUTHOR OF 

“A Door in Convulsions , ” “ Bald Tight Fiddlers ,” When a 
Man Sees Double,' 1 ' 1 “ My Gentleman Meerschaum , ” .E^c., JE7ic. 


CHAPTER I. 

We were all sitting on the pig-sty at T’nowliead’s 
Farm. A pig-sty is not, perhaps, a strictly eligible 
seat, but there were special reasons, of which you 

* With this story came a glossary of Scotch expressions. 
We have referred to it as we went along, and found everything 
quite intelligible. As, however, we have no room to publish 
the glossary, we can only appeal to the indulgence of our 
readers. The story itself was written in a very clear, legible 
hand, and was enclosed in a wrapper labelled, “ Arcadia Mix- 
ture. Strength and Aroma combined. Sold in Six-shilling 
cases. Special terms for Southrpns. Liberal allowance for 
returned empties.” 


74 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


shall hear something later, for sitting on this par- 
ticular pig-sty. 

The old sow was within, extended at full length. 
Occasionally she grunted approval of what was said, 
but, beyond that, she seemed to show but a faint 
interest in the proceedings. She had been a wit- 
ness of similar gatherings for some years, and, to 
tell the truth, they had begun to bore her, but, on 
the whole, I am not prepared to deny that her ap- 
preciation was an intelligent one. Behind us was 
the brae. Ah, that brae ! Do you remember how 
the child you once were sat in the brae, spinning 
the peerie, and hunkering at I-dree I-dree I droppit- 
it ? Do you remember that ? Do you even know 
what I mean ? Life is like that. When we are 
children the bread is thick, and the butter is thin ; 
as we grow to be lads and lassies, the bread dwin- 
dles, and the butter increases ; but the old men and 
women who totter about the commonty, how shall 
they munch when their teeth are gone ? That’s the 
question. I’m a Dominie. What ! — no answer ? 
Go to the bottom of the class, all of you. 


THRUMS ON THE AULl) STRING. 


75 


CHAPTER II. 

As I said, we were all on the pig-sty. Of the 
habitues I scarcely need to speak to you, since you 
must know their names, even if you fail to pro- 
nounce them. But there was a stranger amongst 
us, a stranger who, it was said, had come from 
London. Yesterday when I went ben the house I 
found him sitting with Jess ; to-day, he too, was 
sitting with us on the pig-sty. There were tales 
told about him, that he wrote for papers in London, 
and stuffed his vases and his pillows with money, 
but Tammas Haggart only shook his head at what 
he called “ such auld fowks’ yeppins,” and evi- 
dently didn’t believe a single word. Now Tammas, 
you must know, was our humorist. It was not 
without difficulty that Tammas had attained to 
this position, and he was resolved to keep it. Pos- 


76 


MB. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


sibly he scented in the stranger a rival humorist 
whom he would have to crush. At any rate, his 
greeting was not marked with the usual genial cor- 
diality characteristic of Scotch weavers, and many 
were the anxious looks exchanged amongst us, as 
we watched the preparations for the impending 
conflict. 


THRUMS ON THE AULD STRING. 


77 


CHAPTER III. 

After Tammas had finished boring half-a-dozen 
holes in the old sow with his sarcastic eye, he looked 
up, and addressed Hendry McQumpha. 

“ Hendry,” he said, “ ye ken I’m a humorist, 
div ye no ? ” 

Hendry scratched the old sow meditatively, 
before he answered. 

“ Ou ay,” he said, at length. “ I’m no saying 
’at ye’re no a humorist. I ken fine ye’re a sarces- 
ticist, but there’s other humorists in the world, am 
thinkin.” 

This was scarcely what Tammas had expected. 
Hendry was usually one of his most devoted ad- 
mirers. There was an awkward silence which 
made me feel uncomfortable. I am only a poor 
Dominie, but some of my happiest hours had been 
passed on the pig-sty. Were these merry meet- 


78 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


ings to come to an end ? Pete took up the talk- 
ing. 

“ Hendry, my man,” he observed, as he helped 
himself out of Tammas’s snuff-mull, “ ye’re ower 
kyow-owy. Ye ken humor’s a thing ’at spouts 
out o’ its ain accord, an’ there’s no nae spouter in 
Thrums ’at can match wi’ Tammas.” 

He looked defiantly at Hendry, who was en- 
gaged in searching for coppers in his north-east-by- 
east-trouser pocket. T’nowhead said nothing, and 
Hookey was similarly occupied. At last, the 
stranger spoke. 

“Gentlemen,” he began, “may I say a word? I 
may lay claim to some experience in the matter. 
I travel in humor, and generally manage to do a 
large business.” 

He looked round interrogatively. Tammas eyed 
him with one of his keen glances. Then he worked 
his mouth round and round to clear the course for 
a sarcasm. 

“So you’re the puir crittur,” said the stone- 
breaker, “ ’at’s meanin’ to be a humorist.” 


THRUMS ON THE AULD STRING. 


79 


This was the challenge. We all knew what it 
meant, and fixed our eyes on the stranger. 

“Certainly,” was his answer; “that is exactly my 
meaning. I trust I make myself plain. I’m will- 
ing to meet any man at catch-weights. Now here,” 
he continued, “ are some of my samples. This story 
about a house-boat, for instance, has been much 
appreciated. Or this screamer about my wife’s 
tobacco-pipe and the smoking mixture. Observe,” 
he went on, holding the sample near to his mouth, 
“ I can expand it to any extent. Ah ! it has burst. 
No matter, these accidents sometimes happen to 
the best regulated humorists. Now, just look at 
these,” he produced half-a-dozen packets rapidly 
from his bundle. “ Here we have a packet of sar- 
casm — equal to dynamite. I left it on the steps 
of the Savile Club, hut it missed fire somehow. 
Then here are some particularly neat things in 
checks. I use them myself to paper my bedroom. 
It’s simpler and easier than cashing them, and 
besides,” adjusting his mouth to his sleeve, and 
laughing, “it’s quite killing when you come to 


80 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


think of it in that way. Lastly, there is this bank- 
ing-account sample, thoroughly suitable for journal- 
ists and children. You see how it’s done. I open 
it, you draw on it. Oh, you don’t want a drawing- 
master, any fellow can do it, and the point is it 
never varies. Now,” he concluded, aggressively, 
“ what have you got to set against that, my friend? ” 

We all looked at Tammas. Hendry kicked the 
pail towards him, and he put his foot on it. Thus 
we knew that Hendry had returned to his ancient 
allegiance, and that the stranger would be crushed. 
Then Tammas began — 

“Man, man, there’s no nae doubt at ye lauch 
at havers, an’ there’s mony ’at lauchs ’at your clip- 
per-clapper, but they’re no Thrums fowk, and they 
canna’ lauch richt. But we maun juist settle this 
matter. When we’re ta’en up wi’ the makkin’ o’ 
humor, we’re a’ dependent on other fowk to tak’ 
note _ o’ the humor. There’s no nane o’ us ’at’s 
lauched at anything you’ve telt us. But theydl 
lauch at me. Noo then,” he roared out, “ 4 A pie 
sat on a pear-tree.’ ” 


THRUMS ON THE AULD STRING. 


81 


We all knew tliis song of Tammas’s. A shout of 
laughter went up from the whole gathering. The 
stranger fell backwards into the sty a senseless 
mass. 

“ Man, man,” said Hookey to Tammas, as we 
walked home ; “ what a crittur ye are ! What pit 
that in your heed ? ” 

“ It juist took a grip o’ me,” replied Tammas, 
without moving a muscle ; “ it flashed upon me ’at 
he’d no stand that auld song. That’s where the 
humor o’ it comes in.” 

“ Ou, ay,” added Hendry, “ Thrums is the place 
for rale humor.” 

On the whole, I agree with him. 



“ Then a strange thing happened 



THE BOOK OF KOOKAKIE.* 

By READER FAGHARD, 

AUTHOR OF 

“ Quern Bathsheba’s Ewers,” “ Yawn” “ Guess,” Me,” “My 
Mo’s at Penge ,” “ Smallun Haljboy ,” “ General Por- 
ridge , D. T.” “Me a Kiss,” “ The Hemi- 
sphere's Ire,” Etc., Etc . 


CHAPTER I. 

My name is Smallun Halfboy, a curious name 
for an old fellow like me, who have been battered 
and knocked about all over the world from York- 

* In a long communication which accompanied the MS. of 
this novel, the Author gives a description of his literary method. 
We have only room for a few extracts. “ I have been accused 
of plagiarism. I reply that the accusation is ridiculous. 
Nature is the great plagiarist, the sucker of the brains of 
authors. There is no situation, however romantic or grotesque, 
which Nature does not sooner or later appropriate. Therefore 


84 


MB. PUNCH'S PB1ZE NOVELS. 


shire to South Africa. I’m not much of a hand at 
writing, but, bless your heart, I know the Bab 
Ballads by heart, and I can tell you it’s no end of 
a joke quoting them everywhere, especially when 
you quote out of an entirely different book. I 
am not a brave man, but nobody ever was a surer 
shot with an Express longbow, and no one ever 
killed more Africans, men and elephants, than I 
have in my time. But I do love blood. I love it 
in regular rivers all over the place, with gashes 
and slashes and lopped heads and arms and legs 
rolling about everywhere. Black blood is the 
best variety ; I mean the blood of black men, 
because nobody really cares twopence about them, 
and you can massacre several thousands of them in 

the more natural an author is, the more liable is he to envious 
accusations of plagiarism. . . . Humor may often be detected 
in an absence of leg-coverings. A naval officer is an essentially 

humorous object As to literary style, it can be varied 

at pleasure, but the romantic Egyptian and the plain South 
African are perhaps best. In future my motto will be, ‘Ars 
Langa Eider brevis ,’ and a very good motto too. I like 
writing in couples. Personally I could never have bothered 
myself to learn up all these quaint myths and literary fairy 
tales, but Lang likes it.” 


THE BOOK OF KOOK ABIE. 


85 


half-a-dozen lines and offend no single soul. And, 
after all, I am not certain that black men have 
any souls, so that makes things safe all round, 
as someone says in the Bab Ballads . 


86 


MU. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


CHAPTER II. 

I WAS staying with my old friend Sir Henry 
Hurtus last winter at his ancestral home in York- 
shire. We had been shooting all day with indif- 
ferent results, and were returning home fagged and 
weary with our rifles over our shoulders. I ought 
to have mentioned that Coodent — of course, you 
remember Captain Coodent, R. N. — was of the 
party. Ever since he had found his legs so much 
admired by an appreciative public, he had worn a 
kilt without stockings, in order to show them. 
This, however, was not done from vanity, I think, 
but rather from a high sense of duty, for he felt 
that those who happened to be born with personal 
advantages ought not to be deterred by any sense 
of false modesty from gratifying the reading public 
by their display. Lord, how we had laughed to 
see him struggling through the clinging brambles 


THE BOOK OF KOOKABIE. 


87 


in Sir Henry’s coverts with his eye-glass in his 
eye and his Express at the trail. 

At every step his unfortunate legs had been 
more and more torn, until there was literally 
not a scrap of sound skin upon them anywhere. 
Even the beaters, a stolid lot, had roared when old 
Velveteens the second keeper had brought up to 
poor Coodent a lump of flesh from his right leg, 
which he had found sticking on a thorn-bush in 
the centre of the high covert. Suddenly Sir Henry 
stopped and shaded his eyes with his hands anx- 
iously. W e all imitated him, though for my part, 
not being a sportsman, I had no notion what was 
up. “ What’s the time of day, Sir Henry ? ” I 
ventured to whisper. Sir Henry never looked at 
me, but took out his massive gold Winchester 
repeater and consulted it in a low voice. “ Four 
thirty,” I heard him say, “ they are about due.” 
Suddenly there was a whirring noise in the distance. 
“ Duck, duck ! ” shouted Sir Henry, now thor- 
oughly aroused. I immediately did so, ducked 
right down in fact, for I did not know what might 


88 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


be coming, and I am a very timid man. At that 
moment I heard a joint report from Sir Henry and 
Coodent. It gave on the whole a very favorable 
view of the situation, and by its light I saw six 
fine mallard, four teal and three widgeon come 
hurtling down, as dead as so many doornails, and 
much heavier, on the top of my prostrate body. 

When I recovered Sir Henry was bending over 
me and pouring brandy down my throat. Coodent 
was sitting on the ground binding up his legs. 
“ My dear old friend,” said Sir Henry, in his 
kindest tone, “ this Yorkshire is too dangerous. 
My mind is made up. This very night we all 
start for Mariannakookaland. There at least our 
lives will be safe.” 


THE BOOK OF KOOK ABIE. 


89 


CHAPTER III. 

We were in Mariannakookaland. We had been 
there a month, travelling on, ever on, over the 
parching wastes, under the scorching African sun 
which all but burnt us in our treks. Our Veldt 
slippers were worn out, and our pace was conse- 
quently reduced to the merest Kraal. At rare in- 
tervals during our adventurous march, we had seen 
Stars and heard of Echoes, hut now not a single 
Kopje was left, and we were trudging along mourn- 
fully with our blistered tongas protruding from our 
mouths. 

Suddenly Sir Henry spoke — “ Smallun, my old 
friend,” he said, “ do you see anything in the 
distance ? ” 

I looked intently in the direction indicated, but 
could see nothing but the horizon. “ Look again,” 
said Sir Henry. I swept the distance with my 


90 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


glance. It was a sandy, arid distance, and, nat- 
urally enough, a small cloud of dust appeared. 
Then a strange thing happened. The cloud grew 
and grew. It came rolling towards us with an 
unearthly noise. Then it seemed to be cleft in two, 
as by lightning, and from its centre came march- 
ing towards us a mighty army of Amazonian 
warriors, in battle-array, chanting the war-song of 
the Mariannakookas. I must confess that my first 
instinct was to fly, my second to run, my third, and 
best, to remain rooted to the spot. When the army 
came within ten yards of us, it stopped, as if by 
magic, and a stout Amazon, of forbidding aspect, 
who seemed to be the Commander-in-Chief, ad- 
vanced to the front. On her head she wore an 
immense native jelibag, tricked out with feathers ; 
her breast was encased in a huge silver tureene. 
Her waist was encircled with a broad girdle, in 
which were stuck all manner of arms. In her right 
hand she carried a deadly-looking kaster , while in 
her left she brandished a massive rolinpin , a fright- 
ful weapon, which produces internal wounds of the 


THE BOOK OF KOOK ABIE. 


91 


most awful kind. Her regiments were similarly- 
armed, save that, in their case, the breast-covering 
was made of inferior metal, and they wore no 
feathers in their head-dress. The Commander held 
up her hand. Instantly the war-song-ceased. Then 
the Commander addressed us, and her voice sounded 
like the song of them that address th q boocJiaboys 
in the morning. And this was the torque she 
hurled at us, — 


92 


ME. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS . 


CHAPTER IV. 

“ Oh, wanderers from a far country, I am She-who 
-will-never-Obey, the Queen of the Mariannakookas. 
I rule above, and in nether regions, where there is 
Eternal Fire. Behold my Word goes forth, and 
the Ovens are made hot, and the Kee-chen-boi-lars 
are filled with W ater. Over me no Mistress holds 
sway. All whom I meet I keep in subjection, 
save only the Weeklibuks , them I keep not down, 
for they delight me. And the land over which I 
reign is made glad with fat and much stored up 
Dripn. Who are ye, and what seek ye here ? 
Speak ere it be too late ! ” And as she ceased the 
whole army broke forth into a chorus, “ She-who- 
will-never-Obey has spoken ! The Word is gone 
forth ! Speak, speak ! ” I confess I was alarmed, 
and my fears were not diminished when two of the 
Skulrimehds (a sort of native camp-follower) came 


THE BOOK OF KOOK ABIE. 


93 


up to Coodent and me, and actually began to make 
love to us in the most forward manner. But Sir 
Henry maintained his calm demeanor. “ She-who- 
will-never-Obey,” he said “ we are peaceful traders. 

We bring no Commission ” how his sentence 

would have ended will never be known. Certain 
it is that what he said roused the Amazons to a 
frenzy of passion. They yelled and danced round 
us. “ He who brings no Commission must die ! ” 
they shouted ; and in a moment we found ourselves 
bound tightly hand-and-foot, and marching as pris- 
oners of war in the centre of the Mariannakooka- 
land army. 


94 


MB. PUNCH'S PBIZE NOVELS. 


CHAPTER V. 

It is unnecessary to go through the details of our 
marvellous escape from the lowest dungeon of the 
royal palace of Survan Tsaul, where for months 
we were immured on a constant diet of suet pud- 
ding. Of course we did escape, hut only after kill- 
ing ten thousand Mariannakookas, and then swim- 
ming for a mile in their blood. Coodent brought 
with him a very pretty SJculrimehd who had grown 
attached to him, but she drooped and pined away 
after he lost his false teeth in crossing a river, and 
tried to replace them with orange-peel, a trick he 
had learnt at school. Sir Henry’s fight with She- 
who-will-never-Obey is still remembered. He will 
carry the marks of her nails on his cheeks to his 
grave. I myself am tired of wandering. “ Home 
Sweet Home” as the Bab Ballads have it, is the 
place for me. 


THE HE COGNAC.* 


By WATER DECANT, 

AUTHOR OF 

“ Chaplin off his feet,” “ All Sorts of Editions for Men” 
“ The Nuns in Dilemma ,” “ The Cream he tried,” “ Blue - 
the-money Naughty-Boy ,” “ The Silver Guter Snipe,” 
“All for a Farden Fare,” “ The Boley Hose,” “ Caramel 
of Stickinesse,” Etc., Etc. 


CHAPTER I. 

George Ginsling was alone in his college- 
rooms at Cambridge. His friends had just left 
him. They were quite the tip-top set in Christ’s 

* Of this story the Author writes to us as follows: — “ I can 
honestly recommend it, as calculated to lower the exaggerated 
cheerfulness which is apt to prevail at Christmas time. I 
consider it, therefore, to be eminently suited for a Christmas 
Annual. Families are advised to read it in detachments of 
four or five at a time. Married men who owe their wives’ 
mothers a grudge should lock them into a bare room, with a 


96 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


College, and the ashes of the cigarettes they had 
been smoking lay about the rich Axminster 
carpet. They had been talking about many 
things, as is the wont of young men, and one of 
them had particularly bothered George by asking 
him why he had refused a seat in the University 
Trial Eights after rowing No. 5 in his College 
boat. George had no answer ready, and had 
replied angrily. Now, he thought of many an- 
swers. This made him nervous. He paced up 
and down the deserted room, sipping his seventh 
tumbler of brandy as he walked. It was his in- 
variable custom to drink seven tumblers of neat 
brandy every night to steady himself, and his 
College career had, in consequence, been quite 
unexceptionable up to the present moment. He 
used playfully to remind his Dean of Porson’s 
drunken epigram, and the good man always 
accepted this as an excuse for any false quantities 
in George’s Greek Iambics. But to-night, as I 

guttering candle and this story. Death will be certain, and 
not painless. I’ve got one or two rods in pickle for the pub- 
lishers. You wait and see. — W. D.” 


THE BE COGNAC. 


97 


have said, George was nervous with a strange 
nervousness, and he, therefore, went to bed, hav- 
ing previously blown out his candle and placed 
his Waterbury watch under his pillow, on the top 
of which sat a Devil wearing a thick jersey worked 
with large green spots on a yellow ground. 


98 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


CHAPTER II. 

Now this Devil was a Water-Devil of the most 
pronounced type. His head-quarters were on the 



The Water-Devil. 

Thames at Barking, where there is a sewage out- 
fall, and he had lately established a branch-office 
on the Cam, where he did a considerable business. 


THE DE COGNAC. 


99 


Occasionally, he would run down to Cambridge 
himself, to consult with his manager, and on these 
occasions he would indulge his playful humor 
by going out at night and sitting on the pillows 
of Undergraduates. 

This was one of his nights out, and he had 
chosen George Ginsling’s pillow as his seat. 

* * * * * 
George woke up with a start. What was this 
feeling in his throat ? Had he swallowed his blanket, 
or his cocoa-nut matting ? No, they were still in 
their respective places. He tore out his tongue 
and his tonsils, and examined them. They were 
on fire. This puzzled him. He replaced them. 
As he did so a shower of red-hot coppers fell from 
his mouth on to his feet. The agony was awful. 
He howled, and danced about the room. Then he 
dashed at the whiskey, but the bottle ducked as he 
approached, and he failed to tackle it. Poor 
George, you see, was a rowing-man, not a football- 
player. Then he knew what he wanted. In his 
keeping-room were six carafes , full of Cambridge 


100 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


water, and a dozen bottles of Huny&di Janos. He 
rushed in, and hurled himself upon the bottles with 
all his weight. The crash was dreadful. The for- 
eign bottles, being poor, frail things, broke at once. 
He lapped up the liquid like a thirsty dog. The 
carafes survived. He crammed them, with their 
awful contents, one after another, down his throat. 
Then he returned to his bedroom, seized his jug, 
and emptied it at one gulp. His bath was full. 
He lifted it in one hand, and drained it as dry as a 
University sermon. The thirst compelled him — 
drove him — made him — urged him — lashed him — 
forced him — shoved him — goaded him — to drink, 
drink, drink water, water, water ! At last he was 
appeased. He had cried bitterly, and drunk up all 
his tears. He fell back on his bed, and slept for 
twenty-four hours, and the devil went out and gave 
his gyp, Starling, a complete set of instructions for 
use in case of flood. 


THE HE COGNAC. 


101 


CHAPTER III. 

Starling was a pale, greasy man. He was a 
devil of a gyp. He went into George’s bedroom 
and shook his master by the shoulder. George 
woke up. 

“Bring me the College pump,” he said. “I 
must have it. No, stay,” he continued, as Starling 
prepared to execute his orders, “ a hair of the dog — 
bring it, quick, quick ! ” 

Starling gave him three. He always carried 
them about with him in case of accidents. George 
devoured them eagerly, recklessly. Then with a 
deep sigh of relief he went stark staring mad, and 
bit Starling in the fleshy part of the thigh, after 
which he fell fast asleep again. On awaking, he 
took his name off the College books, gave Starling 
a check for <^>5,000, broke off his engagement, but 
forgot to post the letter, and consulted a doctor. 


102 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


“ What you want,” said the doctor, “ is to be 
shut up for a year in the tap-room of a public-house. 
No water, only spirits. That must cure you.” 

So George ordered Starling to hire a public- 
house in a populous district. When this was done, 
he went and lived there. But you scarcely need to 
be told that Starling had not carried out his orders. 
How could he be expected to do that ? Only fifty- 
six pages of my book had been written, and even 
publishers — the most abandoned people on the face 
of the earth — know that that amount won’t make a 
Christmas Annual. So Starling hired a Tem- 
perance Hotel. As I have said, he was a devil of a 

gyp* 


THE DE COGNAC. 


103 


CHAPTER IV. 

The fact was this. One of George’s great-great 
uncles had held a commision in the Blue Ribbon 
Army. George remembered this too late. The 
offer of a seat in the University Trial Eights must 
have suggested the blue ribbon which the Univer- 
sity Crew wear on their straw hats. Thus the 
diabolical forces of heredity were roused to fever- 
heat, and the great-great uncle, with his blue ribbon, 
whose photograph hung in George’s home over the 
parlor mantelpiece, became a living force in 
George’s brain. 

George Ginsling went and lived in a suburban 
neighborhood. It was useless. He married a 
sweet girl with various spiteful relations. In vain. 
He changed his name to Pumpdry, and conducted 
a local newspaper. Profitless striving. Starling 


104 


MB. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


was always at hand, always ready with the patent 
filter, and as punctual in his appearances as the 
washing-bill or the East wind. I repeat, he was 
a devil of a gyp. 


THE DE COGNAC. 


105 


CHAPTER V. 

They found George Gingsling feet uppermost 
in six inches of water in the Daffodil Road reser- 
voir. It was a large reservoir, and had been quite 
full before George began upon it. This was his 
record drink, and it killed him. His last words 
were, “ If I had stuck to whiskey, this would never 
have happened.” 


[the end.] 



The Characters Personally-Conducted by the Author to Reykjavik, 


THE EONDMAN.’ 

By CALLED ABEL, 

Author of “ The Teamster.” 


THE BOOK OF STIFFUH ORRORS. 


CHAPTER 1. 

Stiffen Orroes was a gigantic fair-haired 
man, whose muscles were like the great gnarled 
round heads of a beech tree. When a man 

*Tlie eminent Author writes to us as follows: — “How’s 
this for a Saga ? Do you know what a Saga is ? Nor do I, 
but this is one in spite of what anybody may say. History be 
bio wed ! Who cares about history ? Mix up your dates and 
your incidents, and fill up with any amount of simple human 
passions. Then you’ll get a Saga ? After that you can write 
a Proem and an Epilogue. They must have absolutely noth- 
ing to do with the story, but you can put in some Northern 
legends, and a tale about Mahomet (by the way, I’ve written a 


108 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


possesses that particular shape of muscle he is sure 
to be a hard nut to crack. And so poor Patrick- 
sen found him, merely getting his own wretched 
back broken for his trouble. Gorgon Gorgonsen 
was Governor of Iceland, and lived at Reykjavik, 
the capital, which was not only little and hungry, 
but was also a creeping settlement with a face 
turned to America. It was a poor lame place, with 
its wooden feet in the sea. Altogether a strange 
capital. In the month of Althing, Gorgon took his 
daughter to Thingummy-vellir, where there were 
wrestling matches. It came to the turn of Pat- 
ricksen and Stiffun. Stiffun took him with one 
arm ; then, curling one leg round his head and 
winding the other round his waist, he planted his 
head in his chest, and crushing his ribs with one 
hand he gave a mighty heave, and clasping the 

play about him) which are bound to tell, though, of course, 
you were not bound to tell them. Ha, ha ! who talked about 
thunder-storms, and passions, and powers and emotions, 
and sulphur-mines, and heartless governors, and wicked 
brothers ? Read on my bonny boy. Vous vi ’ en direz des 
nouvelles, but don’t call this a novel. It’s a right-down regular 
Saga. — C. A.” 


THE FONDMAN. 


109 


ground, as with the hoofs of an ox, he flung him 
some two hundred yards away, and went and 
married Rachel the Governor’s daughter. That 
night he broke Patricksen’s back, as if he had been 
a stick of sugar-candy. After this he took his 
wife home, and often beat her, or set his mother 
on her. But one day she happened to mention Pat- 
ricksen, so he fled, cowed, humiliated, cap in hand, 
to Manxland, but left to her her child, her liber- 
ator, her Fason, so that she might span her little 
world of shame and pain on the bridge of Hope’s 
own rainbow. She did this every day, and no one 
in all Iceland, rugged, hungry, cold Iceland, knew 
how she did it. It was a pretty trick. 


110 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


CHAPTER II. 

This is the tale of the Isle of Man, the island 
of Matt Mylchreest, and Nary Crowe, but plenty 
of vultures, the island of Deemsters, and Keys, 
and Kirk Maughold, and Port y Vullin. Here at 
the Lague liyed Adam Fatsister, the Deputy 
Governor, who had been selected for that post 
because he owned five hundred hungry acres, six 
hungrier sons, a face like an angel’s in homespun, 
a flaccid figure, and a shrewd-faced wife, named 
Ruth. Hither came Stiffun, to beg shelter. The 
footman opened the door to him, but would have 
closed it had not Adam, with a lusty oath, bidden 
him to let the man in. Hereupon Stiff un’s face 
softened, and the footman’s dropped; but Orrors, 
with an Icelander’s inborn courtesy, picked it up, 
dusted it, and returned it to its owner. Shortly 
afterwards, Stiffun became a bigamist and a wrecker, 


THE FONDMAN. 


Ill 


and had another son, whom, in honor of the Manx- 
land Parliament, he christened Michael Moonkeys, 
and left him to be cared for by old Adam, whose 
daughter’s name was Greeba. Stiffun, as I have 
said, was a wrecker, a wrecker on strictly Homeric 
principles, but a wrecker, nevertheless. When 
storm-winds blew, he was a pitcher and tosser on 
the ocean, hut, 'like other pitchers, he went .to the 
bad once too often, and got broken on the rocks. 
Then came Kane Wade, and Chaise, and Myl- 
chreest, and they sang hymns to him. 

“ Ye’ve not lived a right life,” said one. 

“Now, by me sowl, ye’ve got to die,” sang 
another. 

“ All flesh is as grass,” roared a third. 

Suddenly Fason stood beside his -bedside. 
“ This,” he thought, “ is my father. I must kill 
him.” But he restrained himself by a superhuman 
effort — and that was the end of Orrors. 


112 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


THE BOOK OF MICHAEL MOOKKEYS. 


CHAPTER III. 

Michael and Fason were both the sons of 
Orrors. They were both Homeric, and both fell 
in love with Greeba, who flirted outrageously with 
both. These coincidences are absolutely essential 
in a tale of simple human passions. But, to be 
short, Greeba married Michael, who had become 
First President of the second Icelandic Republic. 
Thus Greeba and Michael were at Reykjavik. 
Fason followed, spurred by a blind feeling of 
revenge.' About this time Mrs. Fatsister took a 
dislike to her husband. 

“ Crinkum, crankum ! ” she said, you’d have me 
toil and moil while you pat your nose at the fire.” 

“ Ruth,” said Adam. 

“ Hoity toity ! ” cried she. “ The house is mine. 
Away with you ! ” So poor old Adam also set out 


THE FOND MAN. 


113 


for Reykjavik, and the boatman cried after him, 
“ Dy banne jee oo ! ” and he immediately jeeooed, 
as you shall hear. Last, Greeba’s six brothers 
packed up, and left for Reykjavik ; and now that 
we have got all our characters safely there, or on 
the way, we can get on with the story. It may be 
mentioned, however, that Mrs. Adam found a fever 
in a neglected cattle-trough. Being a grasping 
woman, she caught it and took it home — and it 
killed her 


114 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Red Fason meant to kill Michael. That was 
plain. So he was tried by a Bishop and nine of 
his neighbors an hour or so after the att empt. And 
although the time was so short, all the witnesses 
had been collected, and all formalities completed. 
And Fason was dumb, but great of heart, and the 
Bishop condemned him to the sulphur-mines, for 
which he soon afterwards started with his long 
stride, and his shorn head, and his pallid face. 
Upon this the six brothers of Greeba arrived, 
spread calumnies, and were believed. Their names 
were Asher, Jacob, John, Thurstan, Stean, and 
Ross, but they preferred addressing one another as 
Jobbernowl, Wastrel, Gomerstang, Blubberhead, 
Numskull, and Blatherskite. It saved time, and 
made things pleasant all round. Michael quar- 
relled with his wife, and there is no knowing what 


THE FONDMAN. 


115 


might have happened, if Gorgon Gorgonsen, at the 
head of some Danish soldiers, had not upset the 
Republic, and banished Michael to the sulphur- 
mines to join his brother. 


116 


MR. PUNCH S PRIZE NOVELS. 


THE BOOK OF RED FASON. 


CHAPTER V. 

Poor Adam arrived too late, yet he has his 
use in the tale, for his words to Gordon Gorgon- 
sen were bitter words, such as the cruel old Gov- 
ernor liked not. And he harried him, and worried 
him, but without avail, for in Reykjavik money 
was justice, and Adam had spent his. What 
availed it that a gray silt should come up out of 
the deposits of his memory ? That was a totally 
unmarketable commodity in Reykjavik, as Adam 
found to his cost. And in the end intending to 
shoot Michael they shot Fason. And yet it is 
perfectly certain that the next chapter of this 
Saga, had there been a next, would have found all 
the characters once more in the Isle of Man. For 
nothing is more surely established than this : that 
a good (or a bad) Icelander, when he dies (or 


THE FONDMAN. 


117 


lives), goes always to the Isle of Man, and every 
self-respecting Manxman returns the compliment 
by going to Iceland. And thus are Sagas con- 
structed. And this is the en 


[the end.] 



The Captain. 


Sek p. I20 



THE 


MATE OE THE MAELINSPIKE.* 

By SHARK MUSSELL, 

AUTHOR OR 

“Erect with a Stove in her” 11 My Gyp made to Wheeze” 
“ The Romance of a Penny Parlor” A Hook for the 
Bannock” “ Found the Galon Fire” “ The Mystery of 
the Lotion Jar ,” The Jokes o’ Lead” Etc., Etc., Etc. 


CHAPTER I. 

We were in mid-ocean. Over the vast ex- 
panses of the oily sea no ripple was to be seen 
although Captain Babbijam kept his binoculars 

* “Here you are, my hearty,” writes the author, “this is 
a regular briny ocean story, all storms and thunderclaps and 
sails and rigging and roaring masts and bellying sails. How 
about ‘ avast heaving ’ and ‘ shiver my timbers,’ and 4 son of a 
sea-cook,’ and all that? No, thank you; that kind of thing’s 
played out. Marryat was all very well in his day, but that 


120 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


levelled at the silent horizon for three-quarters of 
an hour by the saloon clock. Far away in the 
murky distance of the mysterious empyrean, a 
single star flashed with a weird brilliance down 
upon the death-like stillness of the immemorial 
ocean. Yet the good old Marlinspike was roll- 
ing from side to side and rising and falling as if 
the liquid expanse were stirred by the rush of a 
tempest instead of lying as motionless as a coun- 
try congregation during the rector’s sermon. Sud- 
denly Captain Babbijam closed his binoculars 
with an angry snap, and turned to me. His face 
showed of a dark carmine under his white cotton 
nightcap. 

“ The silly old ship,” he muttered, half to him- 
self and half to me, “ is trying to make heavy 
weather of it ; but I’ll be even with her, I’ll be 
even with her.” 

day’s gone. The public requires stories about merchant 
ships, and, by Neptune, the public shall have them, with all 
kinds of hairy villains and tempest-tossed wrecks and human 
interest and no end of humor, likewise word-pictures of ships 
and storms. That’s me. So clear the decks, and here goes.” 


THE MATE OF THE MARLIN SPIKE. 121 

“ You’ll find it a very odd thing to do,” I said 
to him, jocosely. 

He sprang at me like a sea-horse, and reared 
himself to his full height before me. 

“Come, Mr. Tugley,” he continued, speaking 
in a low, meaning voice, “ can you take a star?” 

“ Sometimes,” I answered, humoring his strange 
fancy ; “ but there’s only one about, and it seems 
a deuce of a long way off — however, I’ll try ; ” 
and, with that, I reached my arm up in the direc- 
tion of the solitary planet, which lay in the vast 
obscure like a small silver candlestick, with a 
greenish tinge in its icy sparkling, mirrored far 
below in the indigo flood of the abysmal sea, 
while a gray scud came sweeping up, no one quite 
knew whence, and hung about the glossy face of 
the silent luminary like the shreds of a wedding 
veil, scattered by a honeymoon quarrel across the 
deep spaces far beyond the hairy coamings of the 
booby-hatch. 

“Fool ! ” said the Captain, softly, “ I don’t mean 


122 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


that. If you can’t take a star, can you keep a 
watch ? ” 

“ Well, as to that, Captain,” said I, half shocked 
and half amused at his strange questionings, “I 
never take my own out in a crowd. It’s one of 
Dent’s best, given me by my aunt, and I’ve had it 
for nigh upon ” 

But the Captain had left me, and was at that 
moment engaged on his after-supper occupation of 
jockeying a lee yard-arm, while the first mate, Mr. 
Sowster, was doing his best to keep up with his 
rough commanding officer by dangling to windward 
on the flemish horse, which, as it was touched in 
the wind and gone in the forelegs, stumbled vio- 
lently over the buttery hatchway and hurled its 
venturesome rider into the hold. 


THE MATE OF THE MAHLIN SPIKE. 123 


9 

CHAPTER II. 

On the following morning we were sitting in the 
palatial saloon of the Marlinspihe . We were all 
there, all the characters, that is to say, necessary 
for the completion of a first-class three-volume 
ocean novel. On my right sat the cayenne-pep- 
pery Indian Colonel, a small man with a fierce face 
and a tight collar, who roars like a bull and says, 
“ Zounds, Sir,” on the slightest provocation. Op- 
posite to him was his wife, a Roman-nosed lady, 
with an imperious manner, and a Colonel-subduing 
way of curling her lip. On my left was the funny 
man. As usual he was of a sea-green color, and 
might be expected at any moment to stagger to a 
port-hole and call faintly for the steward. Further 
down the table sat two young nincompoops, brought 
on board specially in order that they might fulfil 
their destiny, and fill out my story, by falling in 


124 MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 

love with the fluffy-haired English girl who was 
sitting between them, and pouting equally and 
simultaneously at both. There was also the stout 
German who talks about “ de sturm und der vafes.” 
And beside him was the statuesque English beauty, 
whose eyes are of the rich blackness of the tropic 
sky, whose voice has a large assortment of sudden 
notes of haughtiness, while the studied insolence 
of her manner first freezes her victims and then 
incontinently and inconsistently scorches them. 
Eventually her proud spirit will be tamed, proba- 
bly by a storm, or a shipwreck, or by ten days in an 
open boat. I shall then secure your love, my peer- 
less Araminta, and you will marry me and turn out 
as soft and gentle as the moss-rose which now nestles 
in your raven tresses. The Colonel was speaking. 

“ Zounds, Sir ! ” he was saying. “ I don’t know 
what you mean by effects. All mine are on board. 
What do you say, Mr. Tugley ? ” he went on, look- 
ing at me with a look full of corkscrews and broken 
glass, while his choleric face showed of a purple 
hue under the effort of utterance. 


THE MATE OF THE MARLIN SPIKE. 


1^5 


“ Well, Colonel,” I replied, in an off-hand way, 
so as not to irritate him, “ I keep my best effects 
here,” and, so saying, I produced my note-book, and 
tapped it significantly. “ What, for instance, do 
you say to this ? ” 

But, what follows, needs another chapter. 


126 


MB. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


CHAPTER III. 

I found the place in my note-book, cleared my 
voice and began, 44 The ship was sailing gloriously 
under a press of canvas. Her foretopgallant-sail 
swelled to its cotton-like hue out of the black 
shadow of its incurving. High aloft, the swelling 
squares of her studding-sails gleamed in the misty 
sheen of the pale luminary, flinging her frosty light 
from point to point of the tapering masts, which 
rose, rose, rose into the morning air, as though with 
intent to pierce the glowing orb of day, poised in 
the heavens like one vast ball of liquid fire. 
Through the wind-hushed spaces of the canvas, 
where the foretopmaststay-sail ” 

44 1 know that foretopmaststay-sail,” said the 
funny man, suddenly. I withered him with a look, 
and turned over the page. 

44 Here,” I said, 44 is another tip-topper. What do 


THE MATE OF THE MARLIN SPIKE. 127 


you think of this for a storm ? — 4 The liquid acclivi- 
ties were rising taller, and more threatening. 
With a scream of passion the tortured ship hurled 
itself at their deep-green crests. Cascades of rain, 
and hail, and snow, were dashing down upon her 
unprotected bulwarks. The inky sky was one vast 
thunder-clap, out of which the steely shaft of an 
electric flash pierced its dazzling path into the heart 

of the raving deep. The scud ’ ” 

“ I know that scud,” said a hateful voice. But, 
before I could annihilate its owner, the pale 
face of Mr. Spilkings, with his dead eyes turned 
in, dashed breathlessly into the saloon. “By 
all that’s holy,” he shouted, “ the Captain’s gone 
mad, and the crew have thrown off all disguise, 
We are manned by ourang-outangs ! ” 


128 


MR. P UNCH ’ 8 PRIZE NO VEL S . 


CHAPTER IV. 

Never shall I forget the horrors of the scene 
that ensued. We clewed up the mizzen royal, 
we lashed the foretop to make it spin upon its 
heels. The second dog watch barked his shins 
to the bone, and a tail of men hauled upon the 
halliards to mast-head the yard. Nothing availed. 
We had to be wrecked and wrecked we were, 
and as I clasped Araminta’s trustful head to my 
breast, the pale luminary sailing through the angry 
wreck glittered in phantasmal splendor on the 
scud which 


[Here the MS. ends unaccountably. — Editor of Punch.] 


ONE MAN IN A COAT.' 

By JERICHO JERRYGO, 

AUTHOR OF 

“ Stage Faces,” “ Cheap Words of Chippy Chappie ,” Etc. 


CHAPTER I. 

It was all the Slavey what got us into the 
mess. Have* you ever noticed what a way a 
Slavey has of snuffling and saying, “ Lor, Sir, 
oo’d ’a thought it?” on the slightest provocation. 
She comes into your room just as you are about 
to fill your finest two-handed meerschaum with 

* This novel was carefully wrapped up in some odd leaves 
of Mark Twain’s Innocents Abroad , and was accompanied by a 
letter in which the author declared that the book was worth 
£3,000, but that to “save anymore blooming trouble,” he 
would be willing to take the prize of £1,000 by return of post, 
and say no more about it. — E d. 


130 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


Navy-cut, and looks at you with a far-away look 
in her eyes, and a wisp of hair winding carelessly 
round the neck of her print dress. You murmur 
something in an insinuating way about that box 
of Vestas you bought last night from the blind 
man who stands outside “The Old King of 
Prussia” pub round the corner. Then one of 
her hairpins drops into the fireplace, and you 
rush to pick it up, and she rushes at the same 
moment, and your head goes crack against her 
head, and you see some stars, and a weary kind 
of sensation comes over you, and just as you feel 
inclined to send for the cat’s-meat man down 
the next court to come and fetch you away to 
the Dogs’ Home, in bounces your landlady, and 
with two or three “ Well, I nevers ! ” and “ There’s 
an imperent ’ussey for you ! ” nearly bursts the 
patent non-combustible bootlace you lent her 
last night to hang the brass locket round her 
neck by. 

Pottle says his landlady’s different, 'but then 
Pottle always was a rum ’un, and nobody knows 



“ Two sizes too small for me 


Seep. 136 


132 


MB. PUNCH'S PBIZE NOVELS. 


what old rag-and-bone shop he gets his land- 
ladies from. I always get mine only at the best 
places, and I advise everybody to do the same. 
I mentioned this once to Bill Moser, who looks 
after the calico department in the big store in 
the High Street, but he only sniffed, and said, 
“Game, you don’t know e very think ! ” which 
was rude of him. I might have given him one 
for himself just then, but I didn’t. I always 
was a lamb ; but I made up my mind that next 
time I go into the ham-and-beef shop kept by old 
Mother Moser I’ll say something about “ ’orses 
from Belgium ” that the old lady won’t like. 

Did you ever go into a ham-and-beef shop ? It’s 
just like this. I went into Moser’s last week. 
Just when I got in I tripped over some ribs of 
beef lying in the doorway, and before I had time 
to say I preferred my beef without any boot- 
blacking, I fell head-first against an immense 
sirloin on the parlor table. 

Mrs. Moser called all the men who were loafing 
around, and all the boys and girls, and they carved 


ONE MAN IN A COAT. 


133 


away at the sirloin for five hours without being 
able to get my head out. At last an old gentle- 
man, who was having his dinner there, said he 
couldn’t bear whiskers served up as a vegetable 
with his beef. Then they knew they’d got near 
my face, so they sent away the Coroner and pulled 
me out, and when I got home my coat-tail pockets 
were full of ham-bones. The boy did that — 
young varmint ! I’ll ham-bone him when I catch 
him next! 


134 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


CHAPTER II. 

Let me see, what was I after? Oh, yes, I re- 
member. I was going to tell you about our Slavey 
and the pretty pickle she got us into. I’m not sure 
it wasn’t Pottle’s fault. I said to him, just as he 
was wiping his mouth on the back of his hand after 
his fourth pint of shandy gaff, “ Pottle, my boy,” I 
said, 44 you’re no end of a chap for shouting 4 Cash 
forward! ’ so that all the girls in the shop hear you 
and say to one another, 4 My, what a lovely voice 
that young Pottle’s got ! ’ But you’re not much good 
at helping a pal to order a new coat, nor for the 
matter of that, in helping him to try it on.” But 
Pottle only hooked up his nose and looked scornful. 

Well, when the coat came home the Slavey 
brought it up, and put it on my best three-legged 
chair, and then flung out of the room with a toss 


ONE MAN IN A COAT. 


135 


of her head, as much as to say, “ ’Ere’s extrava- 
gance ! ” 

First I looked at the coat, and then the coat 
seemed to look at me. Then I lifted it up and put 
it down again, and sent out for three-ha’porth of 
gin. Then I tackled the blooming thing again. 
One arm went in with a ten-horse power shove. 
Next I tried the other. After no end of fumbling 
I found the sleeve. “ In you go ! ” I said to my 
arm, and in he went, only it happened to be the 
breast-pocket. I jammed, the pocket creaked, but 
I jammed hardest, and in went my fist, and out 
went the pocket. 

Then I sat down, tired and sad, and the lodging- 
house cat came in and lapped up the milk for my 
tea, and Moser’s bull-dog just looked me up, and 
went off with the left leg of my trousers, and the 
landlady’s little boy peeped round the door and 
cried, “ Oh, Mar, the poor gentleman’s red in the 
face — I’m sure he’s on fire ! ” 

And the local fire-brigade was called up, and they 
pumped on me for ten minutes, and then wrote 


136 MR. PUNCH' S PRIZE NOVELS . 

“ Inextinguishable ” in their note-books, and went 
home : and all the time I couldn’t move, because 
my arms were stuck tight in a coat two sizes too 
small for me. 


CHAPTER III. 
The Slavey managed 


[Ho, thank you. Ho more. — Editor of Punch.] 



Colonel Zedekiah B. Gobang. 

See j>. 141. 


































































-'JMC. 







































































i 




• • 












THROUGH SPACE OH A FORMULA.* 

By RULES SPURN, 


AUTHOR OF 

“ Gowned and Curled in Eighty Stays ,” “ Twenty Thousand 
Tweaks Sundered the Flea,' 1 “ A Tea with Ice," “ A Doc- 
tor on Rocks and Peppermint ," “ A Cab-Fare from ‘ The 
Sun,' " u The Confidence of the Continent ," 11 Attorney to 
Dissenters up at Perth," “ Lieutenant Scatter cash," Etc. 


CHAPTER I. 

The iceberg was moving. There was no doubt 
of it. Moving with a terrible sinuous motion. Oc- 
casionally an incautious ironclad approached like a 
foolish hen, and pecked at the moving mass. Then 

* “ This,” writes the auther, “ is one of my best and freshest, 
although on a moderate computation it must be my thousand 
and first, or so. But I have really lost count. Still it’s grand 
to talk in large numbers of leagues, miles, vastnesses, secrets, 
mysteries, and impossible sciences. Some pedants imagine 
that I write in French. That’s absurd, for every schoolboy 


140 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


there was a slight crash, followed by a mild con- 
vulsion of masts, and spars and iron plates, and 100- 
ton guns, then two or three gurgles and all was still. 
The iceberg passed on smiling in triumph, and Brit- 
ish Admirals wrote to the Times to declare that they 
had known from the first that H.M.S. Thunderbomb 
had been so faultily constructed, as to make a con- 
test with a hen-coop a certainty for the hen-coop. 

And still the iceberg was moving. Within its 
central chamber sat a venerable man, lightly clad 
in nankeen breeches, a cap of liberty, and a Liberty 
silk shirt. He was writing cabalistically. He did 
not know why, nor did he know what “ cabalist- 
ically ” meant. This was his punishment. Why 
was he to be punished ? Those who read shall hear. 
The walls of the chamber were fitted with tubes, 
and electric wires, and knobs and buttons. A 
bright fire burned on the hearth. The thick Brus- 

knows (and lots of them have told me) that I write only in 
English or in American. I have some highly dried samples of 
vivid adventure ready for immediate consumption. Twopence 
more and up goes the donkey, up, up, up to be a satellite to an 
undiscovered star. Brave Donkey! I follow. — R. S.” 


THROUGH SPACE ON A FORMULA. 141 


sels carpet was littered with pot-boilers, all fizzing, 
and sputtering, and steaming, like so many young 
Curates at a Penny Reading. Suddenly the Phi- 
losopher looked up. He spoke to himself. “ Every- 
thing is ready,” he said, and pressed a button by 
his side. There was a sound as of a Continent 
expectorating, a distant noise seemed to twang, 
the door opened, and a tall lantern-jawed gentle- 
man, wearing a goat-beard and an expression of 
dauntless cunning, stepped into the room. 

“ I guess you were waiting round for me,” said 
Colonel Zedekiah D. Gobang (for it was indeed he), 
and sat down in an empty armchair, as if nothing 
had happened. 

The Philosopher appeared not to notice. “ Next 
character, please,” he said, pulling out a long stop, 
and placing his square leg on the wicket which 
gave admission to his laboratory, while he waited 
for the entrance of the Third Man. There came a 
murmur like the buzz of a ton of blasting powder 
in a state of excitement. A choir of angels seemed 
to whisper “ Beefsteak and Pale Ale,” as Lord John 


142 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


Bullpup dashed, without a trace of emotion, into 
the room, and sneezed three times without stopping 
to wipe his boots on the mat. 

“ One more,” said the Philosopher. He hurled 
himself, feet first, at the ceiling, knocked his head 
against the floor, and called down the tube. “ tPy 
suis /” came the answer and the typical, light- 
hearted Frenchman, M. le Docteur Reversi, with 
his thousand thunders, and his blue lower chest, 
tripped jauntily up to the other three. “ And now,” 
remarked the Philosopher, “ we have got the lot 
complete. The story can start. Hurry up ! Hark 
forrard ! JEn avant ! ” 


THROUGH SPACE ON A FORMULA. 143 


CHAPTER II. 

“ Lend me your ears,” said tlie Philosopher. 
They lent them, but without interest. Yet they 
were all keen business men. “Attention, my 
friends ! ” he continued, somewhat annoyed. “ You 
know why I have summoned you. We have to 
make another journey together. The moon, the 
sea, the earth — we have voyaged and journeyed to 
them, and they are exhausted. It remains to visit 
the Sun, and to perform the journey in an iceberg. 
Do you see ? Colonel Gobang will supply the craft, 
Lord John Bullpup the stupid courage, and you, 
M. le Docteur,” he added, admiringly, “ will of 
course take the cake.” 

He paused, and waited for Lord John’s reply. 
It came prompt, and in the expected words. 

“ Is it a plum-pudding cake ? ” said Lord John. 


144 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


The rest laughed heartily. They loved their jokes, 
small and old. 

“ Are we agreed ? ” 

“We are.” 

“ Have you anything to ask ? ” 

“ Nothing. When do we start ? ” 

“We are on our way.” 

“ Shall we not melt as we approach?” 

“ Certainly not.” 

“ How so ? ” 

“We shall have a constant frost.” 

“ Are you sure ? ” 

“ Certain. I have taken in a supply of MatinSes , 
and a stock of Five-act Tragedies.” 

“ Good. But how to raise the wind ? ” 

Scarcely had the question been asked, when a 
frightful explosion shook the iceberg to its founda- 
tions. The Doctor rushed to the gas-bag. It was 
empty. He frowned. Lord John was smoking his 
pipe ; the Colonel was turning over the pages of an 
old Algebra. He muttered to himself, “ That ought 
to figure it out. If x = the amount of non-com- 


THROUGH SPACE ON A FORMULA. 145 


pressible fluid consumed by a given laborer in y 
days, find, by the substitution of poached eggs for 
kippered herrings, how many tea-cups it will take 
to make a transpontine hurricane. Yes,” he went 
on, “ that’s it. Yes, Sirree.” And at these words 
the vast mass of congealed water rose majestically 
out of the ocean, and floated off into the nebular 
hypothesis. But the Philosopher had vanished. 

10 


146 


MR, PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


CHAPTER III. 

When the explosion narrated in the last chap- 
ter took place, the Philosopher had been looking 
out of the window. The shock had hurled him 
with the speed of a pirate ’bus through the air. 
Soon he became a speck. Shortly afterwards he 
reached a point in his flight situated exactly 
40,000 miles over a London publisher’s office. 
There was a short contest. Centrifugal and cen- 
tripetal fought for the mastery, and the latter 
was victorious. The publisher was at home. The 
novel was accepted, and the Philosopher started 
to rejoin his comrades lost in the boundless tracts 
of space. 


THROUGH SPACE ON A FORMULA . 147 


CHAPTER IV. 

“ My faith,” said Lord John, “ I am getting tired 
of this. Shall we never reach the Sun ? ” 

“ Courage, my friend,” was the well-known reply 
of the brave little Doctor. “ W e deviated from 
our course one hair’s-breadth on the twelfth day. 
This is the fortieth day, and by the formula for 
the precession of the equinoxes, squared by the 
parallelogram of an ellipsoidal bath-bun fresh from 
the glass cylinder of a refreshment bar, we find 
that we are now travelling in a perpetual circle at 
a distance of one billion marine gasmeters from the 
Sun. I have now accounted for the milk in the 
cocoa-nut.” 

“ But not,” said the Philosopher, as he popped 
up through a concealed trap-door, “for the hair 
outside. That remains for another volume.” With 


148 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


that, he rang a gong. The iceberg splintered into 

a thousand pieces. The voyagers were each hurled 

violently down into their respective countries, 

where a savage public was waiting to devour 
them. 


4 



Hauser hath the Hat in view. 


See p. i '7 





MARIAN IUEFET: 

A ROMANCE OF BLACKMORE* 
By E. D. EXMOOR, 


AUTHOR OF 

“Born a Spoon,” “ Paddock Rowel” “ Wit and Witty” 
“ Tips for Marriers ” Scare a Fawn,” Brellas 

for Rain,” Etc., Etc 


CHAPTER I. 

Fate, that makes sport alike of peasants and of 
kings, turning the one to honor and a high seat, 
and making the other to lie low in the estimation 
of men, though haply (as ’tis said in our parish) 

*“This,” writes Mr. Exmoor, “is another of my simple 
tales. Yet I send it forth into the world thinking that haply 
there may he some, and they not of the baser sort, who reading 
therein as the humor takes them, may draw from it nurture 
for their minds. For truly it is in the nature of fruit-trees, 
whereof, without undue vaunting, I may claim to know some- 
what that the birds of the air, the tits, the wrens, ay, even unto 


152 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


he think no small beer of himself, hath seemingly 
ordained that I, Thomas Tiddler, should set down 
in order some doings wherein I had a share. And 
herein I make no show of learning, being but an 
undoctrined farmer and not skilled in the tricks of 
style, as the word is in these parts, but trusting 
simply to strength and honesty (whereof, God 
knows, there is but little beyond the limits of our 
farm), and to that breezy carriage of the pen which 
favoretli a plain man treading sturdily the winding 
paths and rough places of his native tongue. 
Notwithstanding I take no small encouragement 
from this, that whereas of those that have made to 
my knowledge the bravest boasting and the loud- 
est puffing (though of this I am loth to speak, 

the saucy little sparrows, whose firm spirit in warfare hath 
ever been one of my chiefest marvels, should gather in the 
branches seeking for provender. So in books, and herein too 
I have some small knowledge, those that are of the ripest sort 
are ever the first to be devoured. And if the public be pleased, 
how shall he that made the book feel aught but gratitude. 
Therefore I let it go, not being blind in truth to the faults 
thereof, but with humble confidence too in much compensating 
merit.” 


MARIAN MUFFET. 


153 


never having had a stomach for the work), the 
writings often perish neglectfully and nothing said, 
some, writing afar in quiet places removed from 
the busy rabblement of towns, not seldom steer 
their course to fame and riches, whereof, thanks be 
to Heaven, I never yet had covetousness, deeming 
theirs the happier lot to whom a dry crust with 
haply a slice of our good country cheese and a 
draught of the foaming cider brings contentment. 
Each to his own fashion, say I, and the fashion of 
the Tiddlers hath always been in a manner plain 
and unvarnished, like to . the large oak press 
wherein mother stores her Sunday gown and other 
woman’s finery such as the mind of man, being at 
best but a coarse week-day creature, hath never 
fairly conceived. But lo ! I am tarrying on my 
way, losing myself in a maze of cheap fancies, 
while the reader perchance yawns and stretches 
his limbs as though for bed. All I know is paper 
and ink are cheaper than when I began to write. 


154 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


CHAPTER II. 

Now it fell on a Summer morning, I being then 
but newly come home from the Farmers’ College 
in the ancient town of Cambridge, that our whole 
household was gathered together in our parlor. 
Mother sat by the head of the great table, ladling 
out a savory mess of porridge, not rashly, as the 
custom of some is, but carefully, like a prudent 
housewife, guarding her own. And by her side sat 
Molly and Betty, her daughters, and next to them 
the maids, and they that pertained to the work of 
the house. First came old Polly Thistledew, gaunt 
of face, and parched of skin, the wrinkles running 
athwart her face, and over her hooked nose, like to 
the rivers drawn with much labor of meandering 
pen in the schoolboys’ maps, though for such my 
marks were always low, I being better skilled in 
the giving of raps with the closed fist than in 


MARIAN MUFFET. 


155 


the making of maps with inky fingers — a bootless 
toil, as it always hath seemed to me. Next to her 
sat Sally, the little milkmaid, casting coy glances 
at mother, who would have none of them, but with 
undue sternness, as I thought then, and still think, 
tossed them back to the shame-faced Sally. Lower 
down sat John Looker, “ Girt Jan Doubleface ” he 
was ever called, not without a sly hint of increas- 
ing obesity, for John, though a mighty man of thews 
and sinews, was no small trencherman, and, as the 
phrase is, did himself right royally whenever por- 
ridge was in question. All these sat, peaceably 
swallowing, while I, at the table’s foot, faced mother, 
stirring my steaming bowl with my forefinger, 
forgetting the heat thereof, but not daring to wince, 
lest Betty, whose tongue cut shrewdly when she had 
a mind, should make sport of me. 


156 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


CHAPTER III. 

Although I had, for the most part, so very stout 
an appetite that my bowl stood always first for the 
refilling, I had no desire for my food that day but 
idly sat and stirred, and the burden of my thoughts 
wore deeply inward with the dwelling of my mind 
on this view and on that of it. Bfrt, on a sudden, 
what a turmoil, what a rising of maids, what a 
jumping on chairs, what a drawing up of gowns, 
and what a scurrying ! For, out of a corner, comes 
the great brown rat, gliding sedately, and never so 
much as asking by your leave or with your leave. 
Then mother’s old tom-cat Trouncer , slowly rising, 
stretches his limbs, and bares his claws, making 
ready for what is to come, but not, methinks, with 
much alacrity for the conflict, for rats have teeth, as 
Trouncer knows — ay, and can use them to much 
purpose. Therefore Trouncer , making belief to be 
brave, as is the custom both of cats and of others 
that walk on two legs, and have thumbs to their 


MARIAN MUFFET. 


157 


fore-paws, gathers himself to the spring, hut springs 
not. Then comes Girt Jan’s terrier, Houser , at last 
— where hath the terrier been tarrying ? Terriers 
should not tarry — and, with scant ceremony, leaps 
upon Trouncer. Cuff, cuff go the claws. Trouncer 
swears roundly. Nay, Trouncer , ’tis a coward’s 
part to fly beneath the chair. To him, good 
Houser , to him, my man. But Houser hath forgot 
the clawbearer, though his bleeding nose for many 
a day shall remember. Houser hath the rat in 
view. Round the parlor they go, helter-skelter, 
Houser on the tracks of the life-desiring rat, while 
the maids upon the chairs show ankles, in proof of 
terror, until, lo! he hath him pinned fast, never 
more to stir, or clean his whiskers in rat-land. 

And then all come down, and Jan boasts loudly 
how he all but trod him flat, ay, and could have 
done so had the rat not fled in terror of his hoot ; 
and Trouncer returns, smugly purring, and mother 
rates the blushing maids. 

And I to the fields, having work to do, but 
liking not the doing. 


158 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Now I with Houser at my heels went manfully 
on my way. Gaily I went over the parched brown 
wastes where lately the flood had lain heavy upon 
the land, past the whisporing copses of fir and beech 
and oak that top the upland, through the yellow- 
ing corn that stands waving golden promise in the 
valley, till I came to where the land bends sud- 
denly with a sharp turn from the eastward whence 
a pearly brook, now swollen to a roaring torrent, 
babbles bravely over the stones. Sudden I stopped 
as though a palsy had gripped me, though of the 
Tiddlers, as is well known, none hath ever suffered 
of a palsy, they being for the most part a lusty race, 
and apt for enduring moisture both within and 
without. Never till my dying day shall I forget 
the sight that met my eyes. For there, seated upon 
a tuffet, her beautiful blue eyes fixed in horror and 


MARIAN MUFFET. 


159 


despair, her jug of curds and whey scarce tasted, 
was my Marian, while beside her, lolling at ease 
with the slothful stretch of his great limbs, and the 
flames as of Tophet in his fierce eyes, sat Spider, 
the great black-haired giant Spider that would 
make a feast of her. 

I know not how I ran, nor what mighty strength 
was in my limbs, but in a moment I was with them, 
and his hairy throat was in my clutch. Quickly he 
turned upon me and fain had freed himself. Our 
breast-bones cracked in the conflict, his arms wound 
round and round me, and a hideous gleam of 
triumph was in his face. Thrice he had me off my 
feet, but at the fourth close I swayed him to the 
right, and then with one last heave I flung him on 
his back, and had the end of it, leaving him dead 
and flattened where he lay. 


160 


MIL PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


CHAPTER V. 

Then gently I bore my Marian home, and mother 
greeted her fondly, saying, “ Miss Muffet, I pre- 
sume ? ” which pleased me, thinking it only right 
that mother should use ceremony with my love. 
But she, poor darling, lay quiet and pale, scarce 
knowing her own happiness or the issue of the 
fight. For ’tis the way of women ever to faint if the 
occasion serve and a man’s arms be there to prop 
them. And often in the warm summer-time, when 
the little lads and lassies gather to the plucking 
of buttercups and daisies, likening them gleefully 
to the gold and silver of a rich man’s coffers, my 
darling, now grown matronly, sitteth on the tuffet 
in their midst, and telleth the tale of giant Spider 
and his fate. 


[the end.] 


SONOfiUN.* 

By Miss REDNA TRIAL. 

AUTHOR OF 

“ Wee Jew” “ A Lardy Horseman” “ Spun by Prating” 
Etc,., Etc. 


CHAPTER I. 

Ah me, how shall we know the true, 

How mark the old, how fix the new ? 

Or teach the babe in arms to say, 

“ Base, bold, bad boys are cheap to-day ? ” 

Nark. The White Witch. 

Sonogun scarcely knew what to do. He had 
been up all day, wandering about the lanes which 

* “ I think you will like this book,” writes the fair author ; 
“its tone is elevated and its intention good. The philosophic 
infidel must be battered into belief by the aid of philosophy 
mingled with kindness. Take Renan, Haeckel, Huxley, Strauss 
and Draper — the names, I mean ; it is quite useless and might 
do harm to read their books, — shake them up together and 
make into a paste, add some poetical excerpts of a moral ten- 
dency, and spread thick over a violent lad smarting under a 


162 


MR. PUNCH' S PRIZE NOVELS. 


surrounded the family mansion. A fitful light 
blazed in his magnificent eyes, his brow contracted 
until it assumed that peculiarly battered expres- 
sion which is at once characteristic of a bent 
penny and consistent with the most sublime beauty. 
To be properly appreciated he must be adequately 
described. Imagine then a young man of twenty, 
who was filled with the bitterest hatred of the 
world, which he had forsworn two years ago, on 
being expelled from school for gambling. There 
was about him an air of haughty reserve and of 
indifference which was equally haughty. This it 
was his habit to assume in order to meet any neigh- 
bors who happened to meet him, and the result 
naturally was that he was not so popular as some 
inferior beings who were less haughty. In fact 

sense of demerit justly scorned. Turn him out into the world, 
then scrape clean and return him to his true friends. Cards, 
race-meetings, and billiards may be introduced ad lib., also 
passion, prejudice, a faithful dog, and an infant prattler. 
Death-scenes form an effective relief. I have several which 
only need a touch or two to be complete. This is the way to 
please the publishers and capture the public. Try it, and let 
me know what you think. — K. T.” 


SONOGUN. 


163 


he had a very short way with his relations, for 
whose benefit he kept a shell into which he fre- 
quently retired. He was dangerously handsome, 
in the Italian style, and often played five bars of 
music over and over again with one finger, to please 
his mother. Some women thought he was an 
Apollo, others described him as an Adonis, but 
everybody invariably ended or began by calling 
him an ancient Roman. He was sarcastic, satiric 
and very strong. Indeed, on one occasion, he ab- 
solutely broke the feathers on a hand-screen and 
on another he cracked three walnuts in sucession 
without looking up. But, oh, the sufferings that 
young heart had undergone ! Slapped by his 
nurse, reproved by his mother, expelled by his 
schoolmaster, and shunned by the society of the 
country-side, it was small wonder that the brave 
soul revolted against its fellow-men, and set its 
jaws in a proud resolve to lash the unfeeling world 
with the contempt of a spirit bruised beyond the 
power of such lotions as the worldly-wise recom- 
mended for the occasion. He whistled to his dog 


164 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


Stray , and clenched his fists in impotent anger. 
An expression of gentleness stole over his features. 
The idea was suggestive. He, too, the proud, 
the honorable, the upright would steal, and thus 
punish the world. He looked into his make-up 
box. It contained hitter defiance, angry scorn, 
and a card-sharper’s pack of cards. He took them 
out ; and thus Sonogun, the expelled atheist, made 
up his mind. 


SONOGUN. 


105 


CHAPTER II. 

On the green table of life the cards fall in many ways, and 
the proud king often has to bow his head before the meek and 
unassuming ace. — B inns. 

And now began for Sonogun a time of moral 
stress and torture such as he had never anticipated. 
It is an old saying, and perhaps (who knows ?) a 
truism, that virtue is its own reward, not perhaps, 
the reward that ambitious people look for, but the 
easy consciousness of superiority which comes to 
those who feel themselves to be on a higher level 
than the rest of the world, which struggles on a 
lowel level. Another philosopher, nameless, but 
illustrious, has declared, in burning words, that 
“ Honesty is the best policy,” best in some form, 
perhaps hardly understood now, but no less real 
because we are unable to appraise it in the current 



u lie had given his coat to a liot-potato-man 



SONOGUN. 


167 


coin of the realm over which Her Most Gracious 
Majesty, whom may Heaven preserve, holds sway. 
But Sonogun had never thought of Heaven. To 
him, young, proud, gloomy, and moody, Heaven 
had seemed only (Several chapters of theo- 

logical disquisition omitted. — Ed.) The clink of 
the billiard-balls maddened him, the sight of a cue 
made him rave like a maniac. One evening he was 
walking homeward to Drury Lane. He had given 
his coat to a hot-potato-man, deeming it, in his 
impulsive way, a bitter satire on the world’s neglect, 
that the senseless tubers should have jackets, while 
there purveyor lacked a coat. The rain was pour- 
ing down, but it mattered little to him. He had 
wrapped himself in that impenetrable mantle of 
cold scorn, and thus he watched with a moody air 
the crowd of umbrella-carrying respectabilities, who 
hurried on their way without a thought of him. 
Suddenly some one slapped him on the back, and, 
as he turned round, he found himself face to face 
with a couple of seedy-looking gentlemen. 

“ I perceive,’’ began Sonogun, “ that you hate 


168 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS . 


the world, having suffered much injustice from it.” 

“ We do ; we have ! ” was the cordial reply. 

“ I, too,” continued Sonogun, “ have many griev- 
ances. But tell me who and what are you ? ” 

“ Our names are unknown even to ourselves,” 
replied his new friends, for friends he felt them to 
be. “ By profession we are industrial knights. 
That should be sufficient.” 

“ It is ; — more than sufficient,” said the proud, 
honorable young man. “ I will be one of you. 
We will take it out of the world together.” 

The bargain thus made was soon ratified. They 
procured cards, Sonogun whistled to his dog 
Stray , and they all set out together to the nearest 
railway station to pick up their victims. This is 
the usual method, and thus card-sharpers are 
manufactured. 


SONOGUN. 


169 


CHAPTER III. 

Nay, this is truth, though heart-string break, 1 
And youth with gloomy brows hears: — 

Howe’er you try, you shall not make 
Silk purses out of sows’ ears. 

W. Braun. Soul-tatters. 

In the present there is absolute redemption. Though a gulf 
should yawn, go not you to sleep, but rub your eyes ; be up 
and doing. — Jakes. 

In the meantime, Sonogun’s cousin, Acis Ar- 
rant, generally known to his jocular intimates as 
Knave Arrant, had been living in luxury with his 
cousin’s weak mother, whom he had contrived to 
marry* To effect this, however, he had been 
compelled to tear a will into little pieces, and had 
at the same time ruined that peace of his mind 
which he often gave to Sonogun. The unfortu- 
nate consequence was, that Sonogun did not value 
it in the least, and always returned it to him. 
And thus the relations of the two men, who 


170 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


should have been friends, the guardian and the 
ward, were always on a hostile footing, which 
only the most delicate handling could have healed. 
Acis was not happy. When his glass told him 
he was old, he had no repartee ready, and could 
only speculate gloomily on the disagreeable fate 
which had compelled him to take part in a modern 
novel, and had evidently told him off to pass 
away into the unseen in Chapter 40. 

But, of course, Gladys and her father, the doc- 
tor, knew nothing about all this. Gladys always 
looked happy ; her hair, her mouth, her eyes, her 
ears, even her little unformed nose, all looked as 
happy as possible. She was a pleasant little patient 
moralizer, with a double escapement action for 
great occasions. On this evening all the family 
was gathered together, including the inevitable 
infant, whose prattle serves to soothe the gloomy 
perversity of morose heroes. On such an even- 
ing as this Sonogun had seen them all years ago, 
and, though he was standing in the garden and 
all the windows were shut, he had heard every 


SONOGUN. 


171 


single whisper of the family conversation. The 
Doctor seemed to be troubled, and Gladys came 
up to him in her caressing way. 

“My dear,” he said, simply, “Sonogun is in 
trouble, and we must rescue him.” No more was 
said, but the next moment Gladys and her father 
had left by the London express. 


172 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


CHAPTER IV. 

All things are fair that are not dark; 

Yet all are dark that are not fair. 

And the same cat that slays the lark, 

Itself is often killed by care. — Bohee. 

Sonogtjn had seen a notice in a railway-carriage. 
“ Beware of card-sharpers 99 was printed upon it, 
and it flashed upon him, with the force of a revela- 
tion, that it must be meant for him. Once more he 
made up his mind. He would fly. Fear lent him 
a spare pair of second-hand wings. He whistled 
to his dog Stray, and having thrown Haeckel and 
Renan out of the window, he flapped twice, and 
then soared up, Stray following as best he could. 
It was very dark, and the clouds were threatening. 
For a long time he avoided them, but at length 
he fell into a particularly damp one, and would 
inevitably have been drowned, had not the saga- 
cious Stray brought men to his assistance. And 


SONOGUN. 


173 


thus Sonogun, the scoffer, the agnostic, the moody, 
gloomy, morose, cast-iron, Roman-faced misan- 
thrope, got home. That same evening he changed 
his clothes and his character, and on the following 
day married Gladys. 


[the end.] 






GERIFOOD. - 

By MARY MORALLY, 


Author oj “ GinUtters ! ” “ Ardart ,” ®c., jBCc. 


CHAPTER I. 

I WAS asleep and dreaming — dreaming dreadful, 
horrible, soul-shattering dreams — dreams that flung 
me head-first out of bed, and then flung me back 
into bed off the uncarpeted floor of my chamber. 

* The MS. of this remarkable novel was tied roimd with 
scarlet ribbons, and arrived in a case which had been once 
used for the packing of bottles of rum, or some other potent 
spirit. It is dedicated in highly uncomplimentary terms to 
“ Messieurs iss Marronneurs glaces de Paris.” With it 
came a most extraordinary letter, from which we make, with- 
out permission, the following startling extracts, “Ha! Ha! 
likewise Fe Fo Fum. I smell blood, galloping, panting, whirl- 
ing, hurling, throbbing, maddened blood. My brain is on fire, 
my pen is a flash of lightning. I see stars, three stars, that is 
to say, one of the best brands plucked from the burning. I’m 


176 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


But I did not wake — why should I ? — it was 
unnecessary — I wanted to dream — I had to dream 
and therefore I dreamt. I was walking home 
from a cheap restaurant in one of the poorer 
quarters of Paris. “ Poorer quarters,” is a nice 
vague term. There are many poorer quarters in 
a large city. This was one of them. Let that 
suffice to the critical pedants who clamor for 
accuracy and local color. Accuracy ! pah ! 
Shall the soaring soul of a three-volumer be re- 
strained by the debasing fetters of a grovelling 
exactitude? Never! I will tell you what. If I 
choose, I who speak to you, moi qui vous parle , the 
Seine shall run red with the blood of murdered 
priests, and there shall be a tide in it where no 
tide ever was before, close to Paris itself, the 

going to make your flesh creep. I’ll give you fits, paralytic 
fits, epileptic fits, fits of hysteria, all at the same time. Have 
I ever been in Paris ? Never. Do I know the taste of ab- 
sinthe ? How dare you ask me such a question. Am I a 
woman? Ask me another. Ugh! it’s coming, the demon is 
upon me. I must write three murderous volumes. I must, I 
must! What was that shriek ? and that ? and that ? Unhand 
me, snakes ! Oh! ! ! ! — M. M.” 


GERMFOOB. 


177 


home of the Marrons G-lacSs , and into the river I 
shall plunge a corpse with upturned face and 
glassy, staring, haunting, dreadful eyes, and the 
tide shall turn, the tide that never was on earth, 
or sky, or sea, it shall turn in my second volume 
for one night only, and carry the corpse of my 
victim back, back, back under bridges innumer- 
able, back into the heart of Paris. Dreadful, 
isn’t it ? Allons , mon ami. Qu' est-ce-qu'-il-y-a. 
Je ne sais quoi. Mon Dieu! There’s idiomatic 
French for you, all sprinkled out of a cayenne 
pepper-pot to make the local color hot and strong ! 
Bah ! let us return to our muttons ! 


178 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


CHAPTER II. 

W hat was that ? Something yellow, and spotted 
— something sinuous and lithe, with crawling, cat- 
like motion. No, no ! Yes, yes ! ! A leopard of 
the forest had issued from a side street, a cul de 
sac , as the frivolous sons of Paris, the Queen of 
Vice, call it. It was moving with me, stopping 
when I stopped, galloping when I galloped, turn- 
ing somersaults when I turned them. And then 
it spoke to me — spoke, yes, spoke, this thing of 
the desert — this wild phantasm of a brain dis- 
traught by over-indulgence in marron glacSs , the 
curse of ma patrie , and its speech was as the scent 
of scarlet poppies, plucked from the grave of a 
discarded mistress. 

“ Thou shalt write,” it said, “ for it is thine to 
reform the world.” I shuddered. The conver- 
sational “ thou ” is fearful at all times ; but, ah, 
how true to nature, even the nature of a leopard 


GERMFOOD. 


179 


of the forest. The beast continued — “ But thou 
shalt write in English.” 

“ Spare me ! ” I ventured to interpose. 

“ In English,” it went on, inexorably — “ in 
hysterical, sad, mad, bad English. And the tale 
shall be of France — France, where the ladies always 
leave the dinner-table before the men. Note this, 
and use it at page ninety of thy first volume. And 
thy French shall be worse than thy English, for 
thou shalt speak of a frissonement , and thy 
friends shall say, “ Nous blaguons le chose .” 

“ Stop ! ” I cried in despair, “stop, fiend ! — this 
is too much ! ” I sprang at the monster, and seized 
it by the throat. Our eyes, peering into each other’s, 
seemed to ravage out, as by fire, the secrets hidden 
in our hearts. My blood hurled itself through my 
veins. There was something clamorous and wild 
in it. Tfren I fell prone on the ground, and re- 
membered that I had eaten one marron for dinner. 
This explained everything, and I remembered no 
more till I came to myself, and found the divi- 
sional surgeon busily engaged upon me with a 
pompe d'estomac. 



A Leopard of the Forest. 


GERMFOOD. 


181 


CHAPTER 111. 

My father, M. le Due de Spepsion, belonged to 
one of the oldest French families. He had many 
old French customs, amongst others that of brush- 
ing his bearded lips against my cheek. He was a 
stern man, with a severe habit of addressing me as 
“Mon fils” Generally he disapproved of my pro- 
ceedings, which was, perhaps, not unnatural, taking 
all the circumstances of the case into consideration. 
Why have I mentioned him ? I know not, save 
that even now, degraded as I am, memories of bet- 
ter things sometimes steal over me like the solemn 
sound of church-bells pealing in a cathedral belfry. 
But I have done with home, with father, with 
patriotism, with claret, with walnuts, and with all 
simple pleasures. Ca va sans dire . They talk to 
me of God, and Nature. The words are meaning- 
less to me. Are there realities behind these words 


182 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


— realities that can touch the heart of a confirmed 
marronneur? Cold and pitiless, Nature sits aloft 
like a mathematician, with his balance regulating 
the storm-pulse of this troubled world. Bah ! I 
fling myself in her teeth. I brazen it out. She 
quails. For, since the accursed food passed my 
lips, the strength of a million demons is in me. 
I am pitiless. I laugh to think of the fool I once 
was in the days when I fed myself on Babaau Rhum, 
and other inliocent dishes. Now I have knowledge. 

I am my own god. I glance haughtily into 

[Ten rhapsodical pages omitted. — Ed. Punch.'] 
But there came into my life a false priest, who was 
like the ghost of a fair lost god — and because he 
was a fair lost, the cabmen loved him not — and he 
had to die, and lie in the Morgue — the Morgue 
where murdered men and women love to dwell — 
and thus he should discover the Eternal Secret ! 


GERMFOOD. 


183 


CHAPTER IV. 

Again — again — again ! The moon rose, shim- 
mering like a Marron Grlace oyer Paris. Oh ! 
Paris, beauteous city of the lost. Surely in Babylon 
or in Nineveh, where Semiramis of old queened it 
over men, never was such madness. Madness 
did I say? Why? What did I mean? Tush! 
the struggle is over, and I am calm again, though 
my blood still hums tumultuously. The world is 
very evil. My father died choked by a marron , 
I, too, am dead — I who have written this rubbish 
— I am dead, and sometimes, as I walk, my loved 
one glides before me in “ aerial phantom shape,” 
as on page four, Vol. II. But I am dead — dead 
and buried — and over my grave an avenue of 
gigantic chestnuts reminds the passer-by of my 
fate ; and on my tombstone it is written, “ Here 
lies one who danced a cancan and ate marrons 
glacSs all day. Be warned! ” 


[the end.] 



GASPS." 

By OLPH SCHREICW, 

Author of “ Screams ,” “ The Allegory of an Asian Handle .” 


CHAPTER I. 

Tant’ Sannie was stewing kraut in the old 
Dutch saucepan. The scorching rays of the 
African sun were beating down upon Bonaparte 
Blenkins who was doing his best to be sun-like by 
beating Waldo. His nose was red and disagree- 

* “You will perceive,” writes the author of the following 
story, “ that this is allegorical, but it is not by any means neces- 
sary that you should understand it. The chief charm of alle- 
gorical writing is its absolute freedom from the trammels of 
convention. You write something large and vague, with any 
amount of symbols thrown in. The words flow quite easily ; 
you cover scores of pages. Then you read it over again next 
morning. If you understand it so little as to think some other 
fellow must have written it, you may be quite certain it is an 
allegory. When you print it, your public reads into it all kinds 
of mysterious and morbid religious emotions, and confused 


186 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


able. He was something 1 like Huckleberry Finn’s 
Dauphin, an amusing, callous, cruel rogue, but 
less resourceful. Tant’ Sannie laughed ; it was 
so pleasant to see a German boy beaten black and 
blue. But the Hottentot servants merely gaped. 
It was their custom. 

But in the middle distance Life was playing 
marbles with the Unknown. And the Unknown 
said unto Life, “ Give me an alley-tor.” But 
Life replied, “ Nay, for the commoneys are lying 
well, and the thumb of him that aimeth is seasoned 
unto the stroke.” And the Unknown beat his 
sable wings together, and one black feather flitted 
far into the breast of the day and fell to earth. 
And there came a fair-haired Child plucking 
flowers in the desert with brows bent in thought. 

And Life said unto the Child, “ Play with 
me. 

misinterpretations of life-problems, and everybody tacks on liis 
own special explanation. That being so, it is quite un- 
necessary for you to explain things — which saves a great deal 
of trouble. The plan is an excellent one. Try it. — Yours, 
allegorically, O. S.” 



Taut' Sannie stewing Kraut . 



188 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


And the Unknown said, “ Play with me.” 

But the Child raised its soft hand slowly and the 
tender fingers grew apart, and its thumb was 
poised in thought upon its nose, and it spake not 
at all. And the feather flitted far, far over the 
waste, and men came forth and gazed upon it, but 
it heeded them not. 

Then said Life, “I am strong. Kings have 
need of me and earth is my dominion.” But the 
Unknown gathered up the scattered marbles, con- 
cealing them craftily, and answered only this — “ I 
am a greater than Life.” 

And the Child strayed onwards and the feather 
flitted, and Tant’ Sannie still stewed Jcraut in the 
old Dutch saucepan. And Bonaparte Blenkins 
was glad. 


GASPS. 


189 


CHAPTER II. 

Cruelty, cruelty, cruelty — all is cruelty ! Boys 
are beaten ; oxen are stabbed till the blood bursts 
forth ; happy, industrious, dung-collecting beetles 
are bitten in two by careless, happy, beetle-collect- 
ing dogs — everything is wicked and cruel. The 
Kaffir has beautiful legs, but he will kick his wife, 
and Tant’ Sannie, alas ! will not be there to drop 
a pickle-tub on his head. And over everything 
hangs that inscrutable charm which hovers for- 
ever for the human intellect over the incom- 
prehensible and shadowy. Omne ignotum pro mi- 
rifico , I might say, but I prefer the longer 
phrase. 

And I stood at the gate of Heaven, I and Tant’ 
Sannie ; and we spoke to everybody quite affably ; 
and they all had time to listen to what we said, 
and to make suitable replies. 

And I said, “ Are we all here ? ” 


190 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


And she said, “ Not all.” 

And I said, “ The absent are always in the 
wrong.” 

And she said, “ I have heard that in French.” 

And I said, “ Is not that impertinent ? ” 

And she said, “ No.” 

And a great Light fell across her face, as though 
a palm had smitten it, and the name of the palm 
was Hand, and its fruits were fingers five. 

And again I addressed myself in terms of 
familiarity to the Everlasting, and I planted a 
book upon the clouds, where eight children 
lay prone with bees flying about their childish 
bonnets. 

And there came a knock at my door. 

“ Eight o’clock ! ” said One. Arise ! ” 

“ Nay,” I answered, “ it cannot be.” 

“ But the water is hot within the can, and 
the table will be spread for them that break their 
fast.” 

“So be it. I rise.” And behold it was a 
dream ! 


GASPS. 


191 


CHAPTER III. 

Fab away the mother of the little nigger stood 
churning. Where is the mother of the little 
black nigger ? She is churning slowly in the 
garden. But cannot the aunt of the good gar- 
dener churn herself ? No ; for she is in the 
orchard, plucking the apples, peaches, apri- 
cots, pears QBirneri), to give to the butler’s 
grandmother. 

And there came Life and The Ideal walking 
hand-in-hand. And behind them came Wealth 
and Vastness singing together. And Infinity 
was there, and Health, and Wisdom, and Love. 
And Reflection was mounted on a steed with 
Joy. And many other shapes followed, delicately 
arrayed in fine linen. And helmet-wearing Men 
in Blue marshalled the procession. And they 


192 


MB. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


spake roughly, saying, “ Pass away there, pass 
away there ! ” 

And I said, “ Is this the Lord Mayor’s Show ? ” 

And One said, “ No.” 

And I said, “ Is it the Salvation Army ? ” 

And again One said, “No.” 

And I said, “ Is it Sequah ? ” 

And One said again, “No.” 

And I said, “ I have guessed enough.” 

And One said, “ Yes.” 

But the Real was not there, and they passed 
away. 

And One said, “I am Wealth,” which was 
absurd, but No-one laughed. And they all danced 
a fandango on the points of their toes. And a 
shaft of light lay over them. And they wandered 
on. At last they came to a bad, brimstone place. 
And I said to Some-one, “ I like this. It seems a 
good place.” And still No-one laughed. And 
Wealth touched me, and I was glad. And I said, 
“ Give me millions, or buy a box of matches,” and 
Law seized me and took me to the Cell. Then I 


GASPS. 


193 


said to the Beak, “Your Worship.” And the 
Beak said unto me, “ Begging again. Fort} 
shillings.” And again I woke. And it was all a 
striving and a striving and an ending in nothing. 


[the end.] 





✓ 


The Author . 



STRANGE 


ADVENTUEES OF A PEN-HOLDEE,* 

By WULLIE WHITE, 

AUTHOR OF 

“ They Taught Her to Death,” 11 A Pauper in Tulle , “ My 
Cloudy Glare,” “ Green Pasterns in Picalilli” “ Ban 
Fast to Royston ,” Etc., Etc., Etc. 


CHAPTER I. 

I held it in my right hand, toying with it 
curiously, and not without pleasure. It was merely 

* “ I now send you,” writes this popular and delightful Au- 
thor, “ the latest of the Novels in which I mingle delicate sen- 
timent Mth Hebridean or Highland scenery, and bring the 
wisdom of a Londoner to bear directly upon the unsophisticated 
innocence of a kilt- wearing population. I am now republishing 
my books in a series. I’ll take short odds about my salmon- 
flies as compared with anyone else’s, and am prepared to back 
my sunsets and cloud-effects against the world. No takers ? I 
thought not. Here goes ! ” 


196 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NO PELS. 


a long, wooden pen-holder, inky and inert to an 
unappreciative eye, but to me it was a bright 
magician, skilled in the painting of glowing pic- 
tures, a traveller in many climes, a tried and trusted 
friend, who had led me safely through many strange 
adventures and much uncouth dialect. “ Old 
friend,” I said, addressing it kindly, “ shall you and 
I set out together on another journey? We have 
seen many countries, and the faces of many men, 
and yet, though we are advancing in years, the 
time has not yet come for me to lay you down, as 
having no need of you. What say you — shall we 
start once more ? I hear a confused sound as of 
men who murmur together, and say, 4 W e have 
supped full of horrors, and have waded chin-deep 
in Zulu blood ; we have followed the Clergy of 
the Established Church into the recesses of terrible 
crimes, and have endured them as they bared their 
too sensitive consciences to our gaze. We pine 
for simpler, and more wholesome pleasures.’ Now,” 
I continued, “ if only Queen Tita and the rest will 
help us, I think we can do something to satisfy 


ADVENTURES OF A PEN-HOLDER. 197 

this clamour.” For all answer, my pen-holder 
nestled lovingly in my hand. I placed my patent 
sunset-nib in its mouth, waved it twice, dipped it 
once, and began. 


198 


MIL PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS . 


CHAPTER II. 

The weary day was at length sinking peacefully 
to rest behind the distant hills. The packed and 
tumbled clouds lay heavily towards the West, 
where a gaunt jagged tower of rock rose sheer into 
the sky. And lo ! suddenly a broad shaft of blood- 
red light shot through the brooding cumulus and 
rested gorgeously upon the landscape. On each 
side of this a thin silvery veil of mist crept slowly 
up and hung in impalpable folds. The Atlantic 
sand stretching away to the North shone with the 
effulgence of burnished copper. And now brilliant 
flickers of colored light, saffron, purple, green and 
rose danced over the heaven’s startled face. The 
piled clouds opened and showed in the interspace 
a lurid lake of blood tinged with the pale violet of 
an Irishwoman’s eyes. Great pillars of flame sprang 
up rebelliously and spread over the burning horizon. 


ADVENTURES OF A PEN-HOLDER . 199 


Then a strange, soft, yellow and vaporous light 
raised its twelve bore breech-loading ejector to its 
shoulder and shot across the Cryanlaughin hills, 
and the cattle shone red in the green pastures, and 
everything else glowed, and the whole world 
burned with the bewildering glare of a stout publi- 
can’s nose in a London fog. And silence came 
down upon the everlasting hills whose outlines 

gleamed in a prismatic 

“That will do,” said a mysterious Voice, “ the 
paint-box is exhausted ! ” 


‘20J 


MIL PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS . 


CHAPTER III. 

I was shocked at this rude interruption. 

44 Sir! ” I said, 44 1 cannot see you, though I hear 
your voice. Will you not disclose yourself?” 

44 Nonsense, man,” said the aggravating, hut in- 
visible one, 44 do not waste time. Let us get on 
with the story. You know what comes next. 
Revenons d nos saumons. Ha, ha ! spare the rod 
and spoil the book ! ” 

I was vexed, but I had to obey, and this was 
the result : 

The pools were full of gleaming curves of silver, 
each one belonging to a separate salmon of gigantic 
size fresh run from the sea. The foaming Black 
Water .tumbled headlong over its rocks and down 
its narrow channel. Donald, the big keeper, stood 
industriously upon the bank arranging flies. 44 1 
hef been told,” he observed, 44 tat ta English will 


ADVENTURES OF A PEN-HOLDER. 201 


be coming to Styornoway, and there will be no 
more Gaelic spoken. But perhaps it iss not true, 
for they will tell many lies. 1 am a teffle of a liar 
myself.” 

And lo ! as we watched, the gray sky seemed to 
be split in two by an invisible wedge, and a purple 
gleam of light shot 

“Stow that! ” said the Voice, “I have allowed 
you to put in a patch of Gaelic, but I really cannot 
let you do any more sun-pictures. Try and think 
that it is a close time for landscapes, and don’t let 
the light shoot again for a bit.” 

“All right,” I retorted, not without annoyance, 
“ but you’ll just have to make up your mind to lose 
that salmon. It was a magnificent forty-pounder, 
and, if it hadn’t been for your ridiculous interrup- 
tion, we should have landed him splendidly in 
another six pages.” 

“ As you like,” said the Voice. 


202 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


CHAPTER IV. 

And now our journey was drawing to a close. 
Out of the solemn hush of the purple mountains 
we had passed slowly southwards back to the roar 
and the turmoil of the London streets. And many 
friends had said farewell to us. Sheila with her 
low, sweet brow, her exquisitely curved lips, and 
her soft blue eyes had held us enraptured, and we 
had wept with Coquette, and fiercely cheered the 
Whaup while he held Wattie by the heels, and 
made him say a sweer. And we had talked with 
Macleod and grown mournful with Madcap Violet, 
and had seen many another fresh and charming face, 
and had talked Gaelic with gusto and discrimina- 
tion. And Queen Tita had sped with us, and we 
had adored Belle, and yet we cried for more. But 
now the dream-journey was past, and lo ! suddenly 
the whole heaven was blazing with light, and a 
bright saffron band lay across 

“ Steady there ! ” said the voice. “ Remember 
your promise ! ” [the end.] 


BO AND THE BLACKSHEEP. 

(A STORY OF THE SEX.) 


By THOMAS OF WESSEX, 

AUTHOR OF 

“ Guess how a Murder feels ,” “ The Cornet Minor,” “ The 
Horse that Cast a Shoe,” “ One in a Turret ,” “ The Foot 
of Ethel hurt her,” The Flight of the Bivalve,” “ Hard on 
the Gadding Crowd,” “A Lay o' Deceivers ,” Etc. 


CHAPTER I. 

Ik our beautiful Blackmoor or Blakemore Yale, 
not far from the point where the Melchester Road 
turns sharply towards Icenhurston its way to Win- 

* “ I am going to give you,’’ writes the Author of this book, 
“ one of my powerful and fascinating stories of life in modern 
Wessex. It is well known, of course, that although I often 
write agricultural novels, I invariably call a spade a spade, and 
not an agricultural implement. Thus I am led to speak in plain 
language of women, their misdoings, and their undoings. Un- 
strained dialect is a speciality. If you want to know the ex- 
tent of Wessex, consult histories of the Heptarchy with maps.” 


204 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


toncester, having on one side the hamlet of Batton, 
on the other the larger town of Casterbridge, stands 
the farmhouse wherewith in this narrative we have 
to deal. There for generations had dwelt the 
rustic family of the Peeps, handing down from 
father to son a well-stocked cow-shed and a tradi- 
tion of rural virtues which yet excluded not an 
overgreat affection on the male side for the home- 
brewed ale and the home-made language in which, 
as is known, the Wessex peasantry delights. On 
this winter morning the smoke rose thinly into 
the still atmosphere, and faded there as though 
ashamed of bringing a touch of Thermidorean 
warmth into a degree of temperature not far re- 
moved from the zero-mark of the local Fahrenheit. 
Within, a fire of good Wessex logs crackled cheerily 
upon the hearth. Old Abraham Peep sat on one 
side of the fireplace, his figure yet telling a tale of 
former vigor. On the other sat Polly, his wife, an 
aimless, neutral, slatternly peasant woman, such 
as in these parts a man may find with the profusion 
of W essex blackberries. An empty chair between 


BO AND THE BLACKSIIEEP. 205 

them spoke with all an empty chair’s eloquence of 
an absent inmate. A butter-churn stood in a 
corner next to an ancient clock that had ticked 
away the mortality of many a past and gone 
Peep. 



BO AND THE BLACK SHEEP. 


207 


CHAPTER II. 

“ Where be Bonduca ? ” said Abraham, shifting 
his body upon his chair so as to bring his wife’s 
faded tints better into view. “ Like enough she’s 
met in with that slack-twisted ’hor’s bird of a fel- 
ler, Tom Tatters. And she’ll let the sheep drag- 
gle round the hills. My soul, but I’d like to baste 
’en for a poor slammick of a chap.” 

Mrs. Peep smiled feebly. She had had her 
troubles. Like other realities, they took on them- 
selves a metaphysical mantle of infallibility, sink- 
ing to minor cerebral phenomena for quiet contem- 
plation. She had no notion how they did this. 
And, it must be added, that they might, had. they 
felt so disposed, have stood as pressing concretions 
which chafe body and soul — a most disagreeable 
state of things, peculiar to the miserably passive 
existence of a Wessex peasant woman. 


208 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


“ Bonduca went early,” she said, adding, with a 
weak irrelevance, “ She mid ’a’ had her pick to-day. 
A mampns o’ men have ben after her — fourteen 
of ’em, all of the best lads round about, some of ’em 
wi’ bags and bags of gold to their names, and all 
wanting Bonduca to be their lawful wedded wifo.” 

Abraham shifted again. A cunning smile 
played about the hard lines of his face". “ Polly,” 
he said, bringing his closed fist down upon his 
knee with a sudden violence, “ you pick the richest, 
and let him carry Bonduca to the pa’son. Good 
looks wear badly, and good characters be of no 
account ; but the gold is the thing for us. Why,” 
he continued meditatively, “the old house could 
be new thatched, and you and me live like Lords 
and Ladies, away from the mulch o’ the barton, 
all in silks and satins, wi’ golden crowns to our 
heads, and silver buckles to our feet.” 

Polly nodded eagerly. She was a Wessex wom- 
an born, and thoroughly understood the pure and 
unsophisticated nature of the Wessex peasant. 


BO AND THE BLACK SHEEP. 


209 


CHAPTER III. 

Meanwhile Bonduca Peep — little Bo Peep 
was the name by which the country-folk all knew 
her — sat dreaming upon the hill-side, looking out 
with a premature woman’s eyes upon the rich 
valley that stretched away to the horizon. The 
rest of the landscape was made up of agricultural 
scenes and incidents which the slightest knowledge 
of Wessex novels can fill in amply. There were 
rows of swedes, legions of dairymen, maidens to 
milk the lowing cows that grazed soberly upon the 
rich pasture, farmers speaking rough words of an 
uncouth dialect, and gentlefolk careless of a milk- 
maid’s honor. But nowhere, as far as the eye 
could reach, was there a sign of the sheep that 
Bo had that morning set forth to tend for her 
parents. Bo had a flexuous and finely-drawn 
figure not unreminiscent of many a vanished 
knight and dame, her remote progenitors, whose 


210 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


dust now mouldered in many churchyards. There 
was about her an amplitude of curve Avhich, joined 
to a certain luxuriance of moulding, betrayed her 
sex even to a careless observer. And when she 
spoke, it was often with a fetishistic utterance 
in a monotheistic falsetto which almost had 
the effect of startling her relations into temporary 
propriety. 


BO AND THE BLACKSHEEP. 


211 


CHAPTER IV. 

Thus slie sat for some time in the suspended 
attitude of an amiable tiger-cat at pause on the 
edge of a spring. A rustle behind her caused her 
to turn her head, and she saw a strange procession 

advancing over the parched fields where 

[Two pages of field-scenery omitted. — Ed.] One 
by one they toiled along, a far-stretching line of 
women sharply defined against the sky. All 
were young, and most of them haughty and full of 
feminine waywardness. Here and there a coronet 
sparkled on some noble brow where predestined 
suffering had set its stamp. But what most dis- 
tinguished these remarkable processionists in the 
clear noon of this winter day was that each one 
carried in her arms an infant. And each one, as 
she reached the place where the enthralled Bon- 
duca sat obliviscent of her sheep, stopped for a 


212 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


moment and laid the baby down. First came the 
Duchess of Hamptonshire, followed at an interval 
by Lady Mottisfont and the Marchioness of Stone- 
henge. To them succeeded Barbara of the house 
of Grebe, Lady Icenway and Squire Petrick’s 
lady. Next followed the Countess of Wessex, the 
Honorable Laura and the Lady Penelope, Anna, 
Lady Baxby, brought up the rear. 

Bonduca shuddered at the terrible rencounter. 
W as her young life to be surrounded with infants ? 
She was not a baby-farm after all, and the audition 
of these squalling nurslings vexed her. What could 
the matter mean? No answer was given to these 
questionings. A man’s figure, vast and terrible, 
appeared on the hill’s brow, with a cruel look 
of triumph on his wicked face. It was Thomas 
Tatters. Bonduca cowered ; the noble dames 
fled shrieking down the valley. 

“ Bo,” said he, “my own sweet Bo, behold the 
blood-red ray in the spectrum of your young 
life.” 

“ Say those words quickly,” she retorted. 


BO AND THE BLACKSIIEEP. 


213 


“ Certainly,” said Tatters. “ Blood-red ray, 
Broo-red ray, Broo-re-ray, Brooray ! Tush ! ” he 
broke off, vexed with Bonduca and his own 
imperfect tongue-power, “ you are fooling me. 
Beware ! ” 

“ I know you, I know you ! ” was all she could 
gasp, as she bowed herself submissive before 
him. “ I detest you, and shall therefore marry you. 
Trample upon me ! ” And he trampled upon her. 


214 


MB. PUNCH'S PBIZE NOVELS . 


CHAPTER V. 

Thus Bo Peep lost her sheep, leaving these 
fleecy tail-bearers to come home solitary to the 
accustomed fold. She did but humble herself 
before the manifestation of a Wessex necessity. 

And Fate, sitting aloft in the careless expanse of 
ether, rolled her destined chariots thundering along 
the pre-ordained highways of heaven, crushing a 
soul here and a life there with the tragic complete- 
ness of a steam-roller, granite-smashing, coal-fed, 
irresistible. And butter was churned with a twang 
in it, and rustics danced, and sheep that had fed in 
clover were “blasted,” like poor Bonduca’s bud- 
ding prospects. And, from the calm nonchalance 
of a Wessex hamlet, another novel was launched 
into a world of reviews, where the multitude of 
readers is not as to their external displacements, but 
as to their subjective experiences. 


[the end.] 



Lord Stonybroke receives his Reward. 




STONYBKOKE.* 


CHAPTER I. 

It was the eve of the University Boat-Race. In 
the remote East the gorgeous August sun was sink- 
ing to his rest behind the purple clouds, gilding 
with his expiring rays the elevated battlements of 
Aginanwater Court, the ancestral seat of His Grace 
the Duke of Avadrynke, K.C.B., G.I.N., whose 
Norman features might have been observed convul- 
sively pressed against the plate-glass window of his 
alabaster dining-hall. There was in the atmosphere 
a strange electric hush, scarcely broken by the 
myriad voices of hoarse betting-men, raucously 
roaring out the market odds of “ Fifty to one, Ox- 

* One guess only allowed at the authorship of this Boat-Race 
Novel. 


218 


MR. PUN CITS PRIZE NOVELS. 


bridge ! ” or “ Two ponies to a thick’ un, Caraford ! ” 
Well would it have been for the Duke of Avar 
drynke had he never offered the hospitality of his 
famous river-side residence to the Oxbridge Crew. 
But the Duke had the courage of his ancient boat- 
ing-race whose banner waved proudly upon the 
topmost turret, bearing upon its crimson folds the 
proud family motto, “ Bum Vivo Bibo” 

And the sun went down, and within Aginan- 
water Court the sounds of wild revelry shook the 
massive beams. 


8 T OJSf YBll OKE. 


219 


CHAPTER II. 

The Oxbridge Crew still sat in the marble sup- 
per-room, amid the debris of the feast that the 
Duke’s Seneschal had laid out for them. The floor 
was payed with Magnums and Maximums of the 
best Heidanseekerer champagne, most of them as 
empty as the foolish head of the Duchess of 
Avadrynke, which was at that moment reposing 
upon the brawny chest of Lord Podophlin, the cele- 
brated No. 5 of the Oxbridge Crew. On a raised 
dais at the end of the room the ladies of the Tarara 
corps de ballet were performing the final steps of 
the Sinuous Shadow-dance, specially dedicated to 
the Oxbridge Crew by the chef d’orchestre of 
Tarara’s Halls. 

“ Tr&s bien , mes ewfants ,” said the courtly old 
Bishop of Logwood, who had deserted his diocese 
to do battle once more in a racing boat for his 


220 


MB. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


beloved University, “ tres bien; je rrC y-connais” 
And with that he raised himself from the jewelled 
sofa on which he was reclining, and blew a fatherly 
kiss to the premiere danseuse assoluta. 

“ May I be jiggered,” observed the Oxbridge 
President, Sir Welforard Longstroke, as he selected 
his fourth regalia from the Duke’s pearl-encrusted 
box, and lit it with all the abandon of a Society 
darling, “ May I be jiggered if this is not ripping ! 
What say you ? ” he continued, addressing young 
Pulyer Wright, the Coxswain, and tossing him 
playfully four times to the raftered ceiling — “ shall 
we not beat the dastard foe from Camford to- 
morrow?” A roar of applause sprang from the 
smoking mouths of his seven companions. 

But at this moment the Duchess of Avadrynke 
and Lord Podophlin rose unobserved and quitted 
the room. In another minute the sound of hurry- 
ing wheels, gradually growing fainter in the dis- 
tance, was heard by no one in the avenue. And the 
dance went on, and revelry rose to its maddest 
pitch. But no one, who, as has been recorded 


STONYBIiOKE. 


221 


above, had heard the sound of the wheels, gave a 
thought to the Duke of Avadrynke, as he sat tear- 
ing his hair in the violet bedroom, having learnt 
from the faithful Seneschal the terrible news of the 
Duchess’s elopement with the heir to the house of 
Podophlin. 


222 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


CHAPTER III. 

The morn of the race dawned clear and spark- 
ling. Far as the eye could reach, the banks of the 
river were rich with Millions, and firm enough to 
bear any run upon them however heavy. But Sir 
Welforard Longstroke was ill at ease. His No. 5 
had fled, leaving no trace, and he had no one to fill 
the vacancy. He looked the very model of an 
aquatic hero. His broad chest was loosely clad in 
a pair of blue satin shorts, and his fair hair fell 
in waving masses over his muscular back. His 
thoughts were bitter. The Camford crew had 
started on the race some ten minutes ago, and the 
Oxbridge craft still waited idly in the docks for 
want of a No. 5. 

“Surely,” Sir Welforard thought to himself, 
“ Podophlin might have postponed the elopement 
for one day.” A confused noise interrupted his 


STONYBROKE. 


223 


meditations. Some ten yards from him a man 
roughly clad, but with the immense muscular de- 
velopment of the Farnese Apollo, w~as engaged in 



The Morn of the Race. 


fighting three barges at once. As Sir Welforard 
stepped forward, this individual struck a terrible 
blow. His ponderous fist, urged by the force of a 


224 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


thirty-inch biceps, crashed through the chest of his 
first foe, severed the head of the second from his 
body, and struck the third, a tall man, full in the 
midriff, propelling him through the air into the 
middle of the river. 

44 That’s enough for one day,” he said, as with 
an air of haughty melancholy he removed his clay- 
pipe from his mouth. His face seemed familiar to 
Sir W elforard. Who could he he ? All doubt was 
removed when he advanced, grasped Sir Welforard 
by the hand, and, in tones broken with emotion, 
said, 44 Don’t you recognize me ? I am your old 
College chum, Viscount Stonybroke.” 


STONYBROKE. 


225 


CHAPTER IV. 

“Saved! Saved! ” shouted Sir Welforard, joy- 
ously — “ there is yet time ! ” Then, rushing into 
rhyme, he asked, “ Will you row in the race, in 
Podophlin’s place? ” 

“ Will I row in the race ? ” repeated Lord 
Stonybroke — “ just won’t I ! ” And, without re- 
moving his hobnails, or his corduroys, he sprang 
lightly into the Oxbridge racing-boat. The rest is 
soon told. In less time than it takes to narrate 
the story, the Camford lead was wiped out. The 
exertion proved too much for seven men in the 
Oxbridge Crew, but the gigantic strength of the 
eighth, Lord Stonybroke, was sufficient of itself to 
win the race by fifty lengths. 

And that night, when the Prime Minister handed 
to him the reward of victory in the shape of a 

massive gold dessert service, he was also able to 

15 


226 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


announce that the Stonybroke estates and the 
Stonybroke title had been, by the Monarch’s com- 
mand restored to their original possessor, as a 
reward of conspicuous valor and strength. 


The Explosion. 


% 






































































WHO’D BE A SAILOR.* 

(A STORY OF BLOOD AND BATTLE.) 


CHAPTER I. 

Listen, my Grandchildren ! for you are mine, 
not indeed by the ridiculous accident of birth 
(since to speak the truth I am an unmarried old 

* Mr. Punch has observed with much gratification the 
success of various brochures professing to give, under the dis- 
guise of retrospect, a prophetic but accurate account of the 
naval battle of the immediate future. Mr. Punch has read 
them carefully over and over again. For some time he has 
been living, so to speak, in the midst of magnificent iron-clad 
fleets. In vain have torpedoes been launched on their occa- 
sionally death-dealing mission against him, in vain have 
immense shells exploded in his immediate neighborhood. 
Nothing, not even the ramming of one whole squadron by an- 
other, has succeeded in daunting him. He has remained im- 
movable in the mist of an appalling explosion which reduced 
a ship’s company to a heap of toe-nails. And now, his mind 


230 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


sea-dog), but by the far higher and more honor- 
able title of haying been selected by me to hear 
this yarn. You know well enough that such a 
tale must be told to grandchildren, and since you 
undoubtedly possess grandparents, and have been 
hired at a shilling an hour to listen to me, I have 
every right to address you as I did. Therefore I 
say, my grandchildren, attend to what I am about 
to relate. You who live under the beneficent 
sway of the mighty Australio-Canado-Africo-Celto- 
Americo- Anglian Federation of Commonwealths, 
can have no notion of the degraded conditions 
under which I, your grandfather, and the rest of 
my miserable fellow-countrymen lived fifty years 
ago in the year 1892. Naturally you have read no 
books of history referring to any date anterior to 

fired by the crash of conflict and the intoxication of almost 
universal slaughter, he proposes to show the world how a naval 
novel that means to be accurate as well as vivid, to be bought 
by the public in thousands as well as to teach useful lessons to 
politicians and sailors, ought really to be written. Mr. Punch 
may as well state that he has not submitted this story to any 
naval experts. His facts speak for themselves, and require no 
merely professional approval to enhance their value. 


WHO'D BE A SAILOR. 


281 


1902. The wretched records of ignorance, slavery 
and decrepitude have been justly expunged from 
your curriculum. Let me tell you then that a 
little country calling itself the United Kingdom 
of Great Britain and Ireland at that time arrogated 
to itself the leadership of the mighty countries 
which you now call your home. You smile and 
refer me to a large-sized map on which, as you 
justly observe, this country occupies a space of 
not more than two square inches. Your surprise 
is intelligible, but the melancholy fact remains. 
All this has now been happily changed, and 
changed too in consequence of a war in which 
England (for so the country was often inaccu- 
rately called, except upon Scotch political platforms, 
where people naturally objected to the name), in 
which, as I say, England bore the chief part and 
obtained the decisive victory. The story of this 
war I am now about to relate to you. 


232 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


CHAPTER II. 

War had been declared. We bad known for a 
long time that it was coming. For months past 
the bellicose bench of Bishops had been preaching 
war in all the Cathedrals of the land. Field Marshal 
the Duke of Wolseley, who was then a simple lord, 
had written articles in all the prominent American 
reviews, and had proved to demonstration that with 
50,000 boys and the new patent revolving ammuni- 
tion belt, Britain (for that too was the name of my 
late country) was ready to defy and conquer the 
world. Rear-Admiral and Lieutenent-General Sir 
William T. Stead, G.C.B., C.S.I., K.G., V.C.— 
the great journalist in the shade of whose colossal 
mounted statue we are now sitting — had suddenly 
become a convert to the doctrine that war is the 
great purifier, and had offered in a spirit of extraor- 
dinary self-abnegation to command both the Army 
and the Fleet in action. V olunteer corps armed with 


WHO'D BE A SAILOR. 


233 


scythes, paper-knives, walking-sticks, and umbrellas 
had sprung up all over the country, and had pro- 
vided their own uniforms and equipment. Lord 
Randolph Churchill, father of the present Earl of 
South Africa, had been recalled to office by an 
alarmed country, and had united in his own person 
the offices of Secretary of State for War, First Lord 
of the Admiralty, Premier, Chancellor of the Ex- 
chequer and Lord Privy Seal. As a first step 
towards restoring confidence, he had, with his own 
hands, beheaded the former Prime Minister, the 
Marquis of Salisbury, and had published a cheap 
and popular edition of his epoch-making Letters 
from Mashonaland. His lordship’s official residence 
had been established at the Amphitryon Club, 
where they still preserve on constant relays of 
ice the Becassine bardee aux truffes which Lord 
Randolph was about to eat when he snubbed the 
united ambassadors of Germany, France, Austria, 
Russia, Italy, and the Republic of Andorra. The 
immediate consequence was a declaration of war 
against us. 


234 


Mil. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS . 


CHAPTER III. 

I was at that time in command of H.M.S 
Bander snatch, a vessel of nine hundred thousand 
horse-power, and a mean average displacement of 
four hundred thousand tons. Ah, the dear old 
Bander snatch ! Never can I forget the thrill of 
exquisite emotion which pervaded my inmost being 
as I stepped on hoard in mid-ocean. Everything 
was in apple-pie order. Bulkheads, girders, and 
beams shone like glass in the noonday sun. The 
agile torpedo-catchers had been practising their 
sports, and I could not resist a feeling of intense 
pride when I learnt that only fifty of these heroic 
fellows had that morning perished owing to the 
accidental explosion of one of their charming 
playthings at the very crisis of the game. The 
racers of the after-guns had been out for their 
morning’s exercise. Indeed the saddles had only 


WIIO'D BE A SAILOR . 


235 


just been removed, and the noble animals were now 
enjoying a good square meal of corn in their bomb- 
proof stable. Keep your animals in good fettle, and 
they’ll never shirk their work : that was always my 
motto, and right well has it answered. The roar- 
ing furnaces, the cylindrical boilers, the prisoned 
steam, the twin screws, the steel shot that crashes 
like thunder, the fearful impact of the ram, the 
blanching terror of the supreme moment, the 
shattered limbs and scattered heads, — all these 
were ready, waiting but for the pressure of my 
finger on the middle button of the boatswain’s 
mess-waistcoat, to speed forth upon their deadly 
work between the illustrated covers of a shilling 
pamphlet. 


23G 


MB. PUNCH'S PBIZE NOVELS. 


CHAPTER IV. 

In another moment the enemy’s fleet had hove in 
sight. Our movements in the ten minutes preced- 
ing the fatal conflict will he best understood by 
consulting the annexed diagram : — 



We advanced in this imposing order for five 
minutes. Then came a puff of smoke, and in less 
time than it takes to tell it, two thousand men had 
been literally blown into thin air, their sole rem- 
nant being the left shoe of my trusty second in 
command, Captain Glimdowse. I trained the two 


WHO'D BE A SAILOR. 


237 


turret-guns until I had got them into perfect con- 
dition, and gave the word. The crash that 
followed was terrific. One of the massive mis- 
siles went home, and stayed there, no amount 
of inducement availing to bring it out again to 
face the battle. The other, however, behaved as a 
British missile should, and exploded in the heart 
of the hostile fleet. The result was overwhelming. 
French, German, and Russian Admirals by the 
thousand were destroyed, their scattered fragments 
literally darkening the face of the sun, and a 
mixed shower of iron, steel stanchions, bollards, 
monster guns, Admirals, sailors, stewards, cock- 
hats, and Post Captains fell for ten minutes with- 
out intermission from the clouds into which they 
had been driven by the awful force of the explo- 
sion. I turned to my Lieutenant, who was stand- 
ing beside me, to give a necessary order. As I 
was about to address him, the machine-guns in the 
enemy’s tops belched forth a myriad projectiles, 
and the unfortunate Lieutenant was swept into 
eternity. All that was left of him was his right 


238 


MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS. 


hand, which, curiously enough, remained for a 
minute suspended in the air in its proper relative 
position to what had been the Lieutenant’s body. 
I mastered my emotion with an effort, as I rever- 
ently grasped and shook the melancholy relic. 
Then, shedding a silent tear, I dropped it over the 
side, and with an aching heart watched it disap- 
pear beneath the wave on which many of its former 
owner’s happiest hours had been spent. 


WHO'D BE A SAILOR. 


239 


CHAPTER V. 

This catastrophe ended the battle. The allied 
fleets had been swept off the face of the ocean. I 
packed what remained of H.M.S. Bandersnatch 
in my tobacco-pouch, attached myself to a hen- 
coop, and thus floated triumphantly into Ports- 
mouth Harbour. 


[the end.] 


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“MR. PUNCH’S” 

PRIZE NOVELS 


NEW SERIES 


BY 

R. C. LEHMAN 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM “PUNCH” 


NEW YORK 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY 

5 and 7 East Sixteenth Street 


Chicago : 266 & 268 Wabash Avenue. 



























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